


things that go whump in the night

by Miss_Ash



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Here there be angst, MFMMwhumptober, Oops, and fluff now apparently, or 'how many ways can I abuse phrack in one month', spoiler alert: a fair few, the rules are just guidelines right?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-20 18:10:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16142705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Ash/pseuds/Miss_Ash
Summary: My unofficial contribution to MFMM Whumptober 2018, a collection of as many of the prompts as I manage to fill. Summaries and warnings at the beginning of each chapter.





	1. Stabbed

**Author's Note:**

> What better way to start writing for a pairing than a month long marathon of drabbles and oneshots, right? Well that's what I've told myself anyway, so here goes my most certainly overambitious attempt to get to know Phrack by way of persistently abusing them. For the most part I'm obeying the sacred rules of whump, but the muse went a few darker places here and there, so to avoid spoiling but to be fair to all my lovely fellow shippers - any chapter with an (A) in the notes bewarned may not have the happy ending you might want. Either way I hope everyone will manage to find something, and I hope I manage to do justice to this wonderful pairing on my first outing(s) with them.
> 
> Teen and Up, (A)

_Through it all she’d managed to keep mind, heart, and body safe and unbroken_.

 

*

 

She’d been injured before, just part of the job after all, but somehow through all her adventures and mishaps she’d always managed to avoid any kind of _serious_ hurt. Through it all she’d managed to keep mind, heart, and body safe and unbroken. Which is why, when the knife first goes in, Phryne’s initial reaction is less one of pain and more one of supreme annoyance.

 

She’d had a perfect record until now, dammit. The people she’s tangled with numerous and various, from drug lords to Commorristi to high-ranking politicians and genius serial killers. She’s dealt with them all, challenged them, won. She survived the Great War for goodness’ sake, and now here she was in an alley three streets away from where she grew up with some low-level thug’s knife through her side.

 

It irritates her, especially since her attacker is really nothing more than a boy, and is clearly as surprised as she is.

 

His eyes drop to where his hand is still clasped around the small knife’s handle and widen, panic obviously setting in, and she makes her move.

 

“Let go,” she tells him, pain and shock making her voice a little breathy but firm nonetheless.

 

The boy blinks at her and she puts her hand around his before he can react and pull the knife back. She’d rather not die, after all.

 

“Let go,” she tells him again. “Leave the knife and I might live. I think that’s preferable for both of us, wouldn’t you say?”

 

He stares at her with the expression of a startled deer, and she sighs – then winces as the action irritates the wound.

 

“You’re a Bottle Top Boy, aren’t you?” she asks then, and he finally responds with a scared nod. “Col put you up to this, did he?”

 

He nods again.

 

“I need you to go and get me help – and if you do I promise I won’t let them do anything to you.” She watches as he processes, clearly assessing his options. “Or you can let me bleed out in this alleyway and the police will find your fingerprints on the knife and lock you away for my murder. Which would you prefer, hmm?”

 

“I’m so sorry, Miss,” he whispers and she breathes a sigh of relief.

 

“Don’t apologise,” she tells him, urgency in her tone. “Go and get help, _now_.”

 

He takes off running and she takes a jagged breath, sliding down the wall with her hand still carefully holding the knife in place. She looks down at herself, assessing as best she can from the angle she’s limited with. The knife is small, and thankfully isn't in all that deep. It’s angling outwards close to her hip as well and there’s a good chance it hasn’t actually hit anything vital. Probably the best-case scenario she could have asked for. Still, she’d quite like Mac’s opinion on it.

 

For perhaps the first time she almost wishes she’d accepted Jack’s offer to accompany her on her snooping, although it probably wouldn’t have made all that much difference. Col knew they were closing in on arresting him, and by the looks of the boy who’d stabbed her this had been a deliberate, if sloppy, attempt either to scare her or silence her. It certainly hasn’t achieved the former, and she can only hope the same will be true for the latter.

 

It’s only a matter of a few more minutes before the boy comes running back, two grown men behind him, and Phryne politely informs them – as they try to lift her off the ground – that she’s perfectly capable of walking.

 

They lead her to a car and she tells them quite firmly that she needs to go to the Women’s Hospital, care of Doctor MacMillan. She turns to the boy and instructs him not to go anywhere, waiting until he mumbles his acquiescence before finally allowing her eyes to drift shut.

 

.

 

When Phryne wakes it’s to white walls and the acrid smell of bleach. There’s a stabbing pain in her side, but nothing like the pain of _actually_ getting stabbed, which hangs over her like a cloud as she blinks back into consciousness. She giggles at the lunacy of the situation, but stops promptly at the pulling sensation in her side, slipping a hand under the sheets, under her gown, running her hand down to feel for the wound and stopping as her fingers encounter the little ridges of stitching through her skin. It feels neat, better than she could have done herself – definitely Mac’s handiwork.

 

She looks up at the sound of the door and paints on her best – if slightly groggy – smile to greet her friend. “Nice stitching, Mac,” she tells her perkily, and Mac merely throws her a filthy look.

 

“You, my friend, are incredibly lucky. If that boy’s knife had been just a hairsbreadth to the right I’d probably have been performing your autopsy. And you’d have had a slow, painful death, at that.”

 

Phryne winces. “No need to rub it in,” she grumbles.

 

Mac rolls her eyes and crosses to the bed, lifting the sheets and pulling the gown aside to inspect the wound herself. “I want you to stay here so I can keep up the antiseptic washes for a few more days, God knows where that boy’s knife had been before it was inside you.”

 

“God knows where the boy has been,” Phryne responds. “He is still here, isn’t he?”

 

Mac nods. “Too terrified to go anywhere else I think. He told me what happened after the gentlemen who brought you had left. I assumed you wouldn’t want me to call your dear Inspector just yet.”

 

Phryne sighs, shooting a grateful smile to her friend. She was absolutely right, of course. As unfortunate as her being injured was, and as terminal as it could have been had things gone differently, she hardly felt able to hold it against a boy who couldn’t be more than fourteen. Besides, his testimony could be what got Col sent down finally, and without his influence the Bottle Top Boys could be disbanded once and for all. Getting stabbed was only a small price to pay to help out those poor boys, after all.

 

“You are going to have to tell him eventually though, you know,” Mac says then, fixing her with a stern glare.

 

“Do we have to? He’ll only overreact, Mac.”

 

“You mean be understandably concerned that you were seriously injured? Of course he will. He cares about you, you fool.”

 

Phryne rolls her eyes, ignoring the swell of warmth she feels at Mac’s affirmation. Things between her and Jack had been confusing for a while, his divorce opening up possibilities she’d tried not to consider with any seriousness beforehand that both excited and terrified her. She knew they were going somewhere, the exact destination not quite clear, but that was an intrinsic part of the fun. She was enjoying their journey, and there was no reason to rush.

 

“Give me a little while to talk to the boy,” she tells her friend, shifting herself slightly and ignoring the jolts of pain it sends shooting through her. “Then you have my permission to call Jack.”

 

Mac narrows her eyes at her, tucking the sheets back into the bed and smoothing them. “Fine, but only twenty minutes – you need to rest, Phryne.”

 

“Fine,” she agrees with a smug smile and Mac sighs, heading for the door.

 

“Twenty minutes,” she repeats, “then I call him.”

 

.

 

She’s surprised when she wakes mainly because she wasn’t expecting to sleep. The room is bathed in the orange glow of sunset and she realises with shock that it must be early evening now, the sun already beginning to set. She rubs at her eyes, pushing herself up against her pillows and looking about the room. It’s only after she has noted its emptiness that she realises her confusion – and disappointment, if she’s honest – stems from that emptiness. It’s been hours since she spoke to the boy, and Mac went to telephone the station immediately she’d escorted him out.

 

She honestly would have expected Jack to have come by to lecture her by now, and she finds it slightly disconcerting that he hasn’t. She wonders if he’s angry, is giving her the cold shoulder because of his own fear for her safety – although she thought they were long past that. Lost in thought she doesn’t hear Mac come in, and blinks up in surprise as her friend approaches the bed.

 

“I thought my bedside might have been a _little_ more crowded than this,” she says with a small pout, frowning when it fails to even illicit an eye roll from the doctor.

 

“Dot was here, earlier,” Mac tells her quietly. “I told her you were an idiot but that it wasn’t life threatening.”

 

“Good,” Phryne smiles, then hesitates. “And… Jack?”

 

Mac goes still.

 

Not good then, she supposes, and sighs. She understands him being concerned, understands the worry that she causes him, but she really _had_ thought they were at a stage where he could at least face her in a situation like this. If nothing else she’d liked to think that his concern for her might be a little stronger than his anger, and he wouldn’t be so stubborn as to stay away.

 

“This is exactly why I thought it better not to tell him yet, Mac,” she huffs. “It would have been far better to wait until I was at least allowed out of this bed, then I could have just gone to see him and he could have seen with his own eyes that I’m absolutely _fine_.”

 

“Phryne,” Mac says, but Phryne continues.

 

“Besides which it’s just childish. He knows what I do is dangerous – what we _both_ do – honestly, it’s so hypocritical of him when he could just as easily –”

 

“ _Phryne_ ,” Mac interrupts and she looks up at her frowning.

 

“What?”

 

Her friend takes a long steadying breath before perching herself on the edge of the bed and placing a gentle hand on Phryne’s arm. Something in her stomach starts to knot uncomfortably. Mac seldom looks this serious.

 

“What is it?” she asks again, a mere whisper, and Mac looks up to meet her gaze.

 

“The hit that Col ordered on you it… it wasn’t the only one. He ordered another one at the same time.”

 

The knot tightens furiously. “Jack,” she breathes. “Where’s Jack?”

 

Mac swallows, clearly trying to find her words. “They brought him in this afternoon, he’d been stabbed in the chest.”

 

“No.” She shakes her head. “Where is he?”

 

“Phryne, I’m sorry but –”

 

“ _No_ ,” she insists.

 

There has to be a mistake. This has to be a mistake.

 

“He wasn’t as lucky as you,” Mac explains, voice too soft. Too sympathetic.

 

“No." no no.

 

Please, no.

 

“He died two hours ago.”

 

Phryne’s heart feels like it’s been ripped from her body, pain shooting through her that makes her stab wound seem like a pinprick.

 

“Phryne, I’m so sorry,” Mac breathes and Phryne just shakes her head, disbelieving.

 

It can’t be true, can’t be real. It’s her. She’s the one who’d been stabbed. She’s the one who ran headfirst into danger, took unnecessary risks, acted with no regard for her own safety. It was _her_ , not him. She was the fool, so how could he be the one who hadn’t made it? How could he be dead – with all his caution and his protocol and his backup? How could it be him when she was the one who lived so constantly on the edge?

 

“There has to be a mistake,” she whispers, feeling numb. “Mac, there has to be a mistake, it can’t be him.”

 

“I’m so sorry,” Mac repeats, and Phryne merely shakes her head again.

 

“It was me,” she says, barely a breath. “I’m the one who got stabbed it was… it was _me_.”

 

Her mind cycles back to the night before, to an alley in Collingwood and the feel of sharpened metal tearing through her flesh.

 

She wishes she could go back, wishes she could feel that again instead of what she’s feeling now, wishes she could change the knife’s course and have it go through her heart because she’s sure that would hurt so much less.

 

She’d been injured before, just part of the job, and somehow through all her adventures and mishaps she’d always managed to avoid any kind of serious hurt. Through it all she’d managed to keep mind, heart, and body safe and unbroken.

 

Until now.

 


	2. Bloody Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack goes on a police raid, Phryne is unimpressed with the results. Teen and Up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to people for the kind words on the first one, it's such a wonderful encouragement. I hope you enjoy a somewhat less depressing second installment!

 

 It’s late when the knock comes, but she jumps up at the sound of it nevertheless. It wasn’t like she’d been sleeping, not with her mind trying its best to come up with every worst-case scenario it could as she’d sat sipping whisky alone. It’s not the first time he’s had to go on a raid since they met, but this one was the biggest by far. She’d been sitting anxiously waiting news for hours, and the knock sends relief rushing through her body like a wave.

 

It’s not like it could be anyone else at her door at this time of night.

 

She pulls it open gently so as not to make too much noise and disturb the rest of her house, a witty comment all ready on her lips to greet him with as if she hasn't been sitting quietly panicking all evening. As she looks him over though, she falters, words dying on her tongue and a hushed gasp escaping instead.

 

“Jack, oh my god,” she breathes and he grimaces.

 

“It’s not pretty, I know,” he murmurs. “I’m going home to clean up, I just wanted to let you know Hugh and I are safe since I was passing.”

 

She stares at him for a full ten seconds, eyes roaming over his figure in dismay. His hair is dishevelled, several pieces falling over his forehead, though still nowhere near enough to cover the rapidly darkening bruise on his cheekbone, nor the cuts littered across his face. His suit is ruffled, shirt stained with blood that she only knows isn’t his because its sheer volume means he wouldn’t be standing in front of her if it was. Worst, though, and filling her with the most worry, are his hands. His knuckles are raw and bloody, small but deep looking cuts littered across the back of them. She can’t see his palms but she fears they’re in no better state. Without another word she reaches forward and grabs hold of his tie, dragging him across the threshold and slipping the door shut behind him. He makes a vague noise of protest, but she ignores it, leading him by the tie through the dining room and into the kitchen.

 

“Sit down,” she tells him and he blinks several times before obeying wordlessly. She pulls a bowl out of a cupboard, filling it with water and placing it on the table before rifling through a draw and pulling out several clean cloths. In deference to Dot she does her best to select the older, scruffier looking ones, but she knows her companion won’t be delighted either way. Much as she loves her, though, she doesn’t much care right now – attention focused on an altogether different problem. She can buy Dot new tea towels.

 

She can’t buy Jack new hands.

 

“Miss Fisher, really, I can manage quite well myself,” Jack protests as she takes a seat opposite him and pulls one of his hands towards her. She ignores him, turning it over gently to examine his palms and biting down on the swell of anger she feels as she examines the deep cuts that criss-cross them.

 

“What happened?” she asks him in a whisper, fingers tracing the bleeding wounds.

 

“You’re going to get blood on you,” he tells her, voice low as he avoids the question.

 

She takes no notice, pressing. “What happened?”

 

He shifts a little, seeming almost nervous. “It's nothing, really. You don't need to worry.”

 

“I am worried,” she says, shocking even herself at the honesty in it. Jack certainly doesn't seem able to respond and she quickly shifts her gaze back to his hand, turning it back over again to trace her fingers across the wounds there. “There's glass in these cuts,” she notes aloud without really meaning to, and he sighs.

 

“A man tried to use my head to smash a bottle over and I… deflected it.”

 

“With your hands?” She demands, horrified.

 

“Would you _rather_ I'd have used my head?” He shoots back and she takes a deep breath, ignoring the question for fear she’ll just snap at him, and standing again instead.

 

“This needs more than a towel,” she tells him, unable to keep the harshness out of her voice. She doesn't mean it to be there, she's not even angry at him – more at whoever thought they could take a bottle to him and live – and decidedly so at herself. She's scared, has been all evening, and Jack turning up bloodied on her doorstep has done little to ease that. She’s worried about him, so deeply that it makes her angry. Angry that she's feeling emotion she'd rather not be.

 

She leaves the kitchen, making her way up the stairs to her room and rifling around on her dresser until she finds what she's looking for, and heading back down via her liquor cabinet, sliding back into her seat at the table as if she'd never left.

 

Jack eyes the tweezers with nothing short of dread.

 

“What are you planning to do with those?”

 

“Removing the glass, Jack, you can't leave it in there.”

 

“Are you sure?” He asks as she pulls his hands back towards her again, and she takes a small amount of pleasure in his trepidation. Serves him right for making her feel worried. Serves him right for making her _feel_.

 

“Positive,” she responds with what she knows is a somewhat wicked smirk.

 

He fidgets, gaze moving to the bottle of vodka she's placed beside them. “And that?”

 

“To sterilise them,” she tells him innocently. “You wouldn't believe where these have been.”

 

He swallows thickly, looking from the tweezers to her and back again. “Don't be so sure.”

 

She rolls her eyes, removing the cap from the bottle and pouring a measure out into it, then she pulls one of his hands further forward, dipping the tweezers in the alcohol and setting to work. The glass shards are small and fiddling, but thankfully their dark green hue makes them easy enough to identify against his skin.

 

They sit in silence for long minutes, disturbed only by the occasional wince or groan of pain from Jack as she digs out the glass. As soon as she's finished with one hand she takes the other, cradling it gently in one of her own as she goes about her work.

 

When she's satisfied she's finally pulled the last shard from his flesh she looks up, a little surprised to find his eyes seem to have already departed from their touching hands to her face, where they remain as she meets them with her own gaze. She runs her thumb featherlight across his skin, then clears her throat, gathering herself and placing his hand back on the table.

 

“We’re not done yet,” she states, reaching for a cloth and submerging it in the water, ringing it with fingers she vaguely notes have begun to shake. She grabs a hand back, a little rougher, and starts to dab at it, wiping away the blood and dirt to reveal each fine dark laceration. Each little cut makes her chest tighten more and more as she can't help but wonder what damage would have been done if his hands hadn't intercepted first. He already has a few cuts to the face, but she can't help but wonder what the damage would look like.

 

The more she thinks about it the sicker she feels.

 

She switches to the second hand, rewetting the tea towel and cleaning it diligently. Her strokes get rougher as she goes, more frustrated and erratic, desperate to scrub off not just the blood but the injuries themselves.

 

“Phryne,” he murmurs, but it barely registers, her eyes still fixed on her task. They're nearly clean, nearly free of the dried blood that made the wounds seem so dramatic.

 

“Phryne,” his voice comes again, turning his hand beneath hers to hold it, squeezing gently. “Phryne, look at me.”

 

She stares at where he's stilled her hand, and realises with absolute horror that she can feel wetness on her cheeks. She sniffs, pulling her hands away and wiping angrily at the tears that have managed to betray her by escaping.

 

“I need to sterilise the wounds, hold your hands over the bowl,” she instructs, keeping her voice as steady and stern as possible. She feels Jack’s eyes on her for a second and wonders if he's going to refuse, but then he holds his hands out and she snatches for the bottle.

 

She pours liberally, making sure to cover everywhere, and he gasps out in pain.

 

“Ow, _Jesus_.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Are you?” he asks, searching her face for something but she avoids his eye.

 

Instead, once she's satisfied she's doused all the injured skin she grabs the other clean towel and pats them dry. She takes a steadying breath and stands, picking up the bowl of bloodied water.

 

“That's the best I can do with what I have, but it should help stave off infection at least,” she states, doggedly ignoring images that rise unbidden to her mind of the infections she’d seen in the War. Infections from the silliest of injuries, the smallest of nicks, that had cost soldiers life and limb. She feels warmth behind her eyes again and turns quickly to attend to the bowl, crossing to the sink to empty it and keeping her back firmly to Jack.

 

This is ridiculous, she thinks. They’re only hands and the cuts will heal. In the grand scheme Jack is not at all badly injured, just a little roughed up. He easily could have fared worse had he had one too many drinks in a pub rather than raided a drug den. Still, she can't stop thinking about how much worse it could have been, the anxiety she'd been feeling all evening apparently bubbling out now all at once.

 

She hears his chair scrape against the floor, and bites down on her lip as he approaches, eyes falling shut as she tries desperately to tamp down the ridiculous emotions clawing up her throat and attempting to choke her.

 

“Phryne,” he breathes, hot on the back of her neck as he places a hand softly on her shoulder.

 

She breaks, one hand coming up to her mouth to catch the first sob as it escapes and the other going to her stomach and feeling it shake through her. She gasps against it, the sensation unnerving, catching her off guard and leaving her helpless. The tears run hot down her face, burning like the shame she feels for their presence over such a trifling thing.

 

They’re just _hands_.

 

Hands that Jack runs down her back, stroking gently, though he doesn't speak again. She cries for several long minutes, Jack’s stoic touch ever present and warming against her, until finally her tears start to subside, and she wipes at her face again, smoothing herself down and pushing away from the sink.

 

She strides to the other side of the kitchen, folding the cloths and quite deliberately not looking at him.

 

“The guest room is made up,” she states. “I’m going to bed.”

 

With that she practically runs from the kitchen, running a hand through her hair in sheer frustration. She makes it to the bottom of the stairs before pausing, turning on her heel and back again. She sighs, giving up on the internal battle and walking straight back to the kitchen. Jack is still standing, looking somewhat shell shocked, by the sink.

 

She takes him in, a lump in her throat. His dishevelled hair, blood-soaked shirt, and scratched up hands. She's never seen anything more beautiful in her life, and she knows that a large part of that is just the sheer fact that he's there and fine and breathing.

 

“Phryne, are you –” he begins, utter perplexity in his tone, but she crosses the room and cuts him off, hands coming to rest on his chest over the ruined shirt.

 

“Do you remember Gerty?” she asks, and he appears to startle at the mention of the name, the case a fragile if important memory for both of them.

 

He merely nods.

 

“Do you remember, Jack, can you recall how it felt when you thought I was in that wreckage?” She stares at her own hands, watching her fingers stroke tiny absent patterns into the stained cotton beneath them. She feels his hushed response almost more than she hears it.

 

“I do.”

 

“Well, I’ve been imagining wreckage all evening,” she admits, finally looking at him. His eyes are dark, and he seems almost frozen in place by her words, unmoving beneath her touch. “You have beautiful hands, Jack. I need you to promise to take better care of them.”

 

With that he finally moves, fingers coming up to ghost against her cheek. “You have my word.”

 

She leans into the touch, eyes sweeping across his face and cataloguing each cut there before landing on his lips.

 

“And what about your hands?”

 

His brow creases slightly. “What about them?”

 

“Do I have your hands, Jack?” The words are barely a breath, and what’s left is immediately knocked out of her as his mouth meets hers. The movement is both a shock and a thrill, sending a surprised shiver rippling through her.

 

“Where do you want my hands?” he asks against her mouth and she lets out a soft whimper.

 

“Everywhere.”

 

She turns her face towards the hand on her cheek, parting their lips long enough to place a kiss into his palm. She brings a hand up to cover his, holding it in place against her mouth and placing several more kisses down his fingers and across the lacerated skin of his palms. She reaches a deeper cut and he winces, even against the gentle, reverent touch of her kisses.

 

She sighs, smiling a rueful smile and letting go. “But not, perhaps, tonight.”

 

He raises an eyebrow at her, mouth curling up at the corners. “There’s plenty a man can still do without his hands, Miss Fisher.”

 

Her respondent smirk is automatic and unconscious. “Care to prove that, Inspector?” She levels at him, raising her own expectant brow.

 

“Gladly.”

 

 


	3. Insomnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack can’t sleep, and it’s only partially to do with the German planes flying overhead. Teen and Up, (A) - ish. Less than last time, I swear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for such lovely comments, sure makes a girl's day :)

 

 

Jack lay on his lumpy palliasse and closed his eyes with dogged determination. He had not had a solid night’s sleep in more weeks than he could count, and he was adamant that that would change. Surely, he thought, sheer exhaustion would have to carry him off sooner or later?

 

He turned over, mind drifting as he shifted around, thoughts wandering – as they were wont to do these days - to just how he’d come to be here.

 

The thing that shocked him most about the second war was how different it was. The Great War had been awful in a multitude of ways, bloody and violent and traumatising to the last. This one was quieter, but somehow no less cruel.

 

There were no trenches, at least not where he was stationed, no generals sitting in offices miles away ordering men over the top in a constant almost comical stream of death and destruction. There was no stand to, no routine tightrope walk between boredom and certain death. This one was more action filled, fairer footed. This one felt like they had more control over their own lives, their own survival, but deep down he knew that was only an illusion. A false sense of security that they'd created to comfort themselves as they slept in fields far from home.

 

The only control he'd had over his fate he’d surrendered when he volunteered in the first place, and the longer the war dragged on, the more the months added up since he’d stood on a ship and stared longingly back at disappearing figures on a harbourside, the more he questioned what exactly he'd been thinking in doing so.

 

He could have stayed. He was a senior level in a reserved occupation and he could have been safe from call up potentially for as long as the war might wage. He could have steered well clear and stayed safe and comfortable in Melbourne surrounded by everyone he loved. His own nobility had damned him, though. His own sense of duty.

 

He remembered the day like it had happened only moments ago, the announcement on the wireless, the way Hugh had thrown him a look and he'd known instantly the young man was thinking exactly what he was, the way he'd looked back to see Phryne had seen it, horror already on her face.

 

He remembered the way they'd argued with perfect clarity, perfect pain.

 

.

 

_“Would you all excuse us a moment?” she asked, hushed, and the room emptied quickly, everyone disappearing into the parlour and closing the door firmly behind them. He watched with a heavy weight in his stomach as Phryne pushed the dining room door closed behind them as well._

 

_“You don't have to go,” she murmured, without turning, and he took a shaky breath._

 

_“You know I have to.”_

 

_“No,” she hissed, spinning back to face him. “No, Jack, you don't. You're a Senior Detective, they won't send you unless you volunteer, you know they won't. You can stay here, you can be safe, Jack. Don't go.” Her blue eyes burnt as she stared up at him._

 

_“Phryne, you were there the first time around, you've seen it. You understand why I can't just stay here sitting behind my desk.” He stepped around the table towards her, placing gentle hands on her shoulders and rubbing soothing circles into them. He didn't want to upset her, but he was sure that she understood, underneath everything else._

 

_“I understand why you'd want to stay away, not go back,” she snapped, pulling back from his touch. “You were in France, Jack. How can you have seen everything that we saw and voluntarily expose yourself to that again?”_

 

_He sighed, exasperated. “For King and Country,” he declared, trying without much success to tamp down on his own anger. “For all the men and boys who won't have a choice because they're not as privileged as I am. For everyone who apparently died in vain in the last one, the war to end all wars.”_

 

_He threw his hands up in the air, shaking his head and turning back to her. “That was meant to be the end of it, Phryne, but maybe it never will end. Maybe this is what the world is now, but you can be sure I will not sit here like those damned generals did the last time, safe in the comfort of my office while good men are gunned down on the battlefield!”_

 

_He surged forward, taking her face between his hands, imploring. He needed her to understand, he needed her to be okay with him doing this, to know that even if she didn’t want it for her own reasons she still respected the choice he was making. “I cannot sit here and do nothing whilst evil tries to win out there, Phryne,” he breathed. “You know I can't any more than you could.”_

 

_She stared up at him for several long moments, one hand finally coming up to take one of his in her own. “If you go, Hugh will too,” she stated plainly._

 

_“Hugh has his own choice to make, I'm not going to influence him either way,” he argued._

 

_She rolled her eyes, shaking off the hand still on her face, though not letting go of his fingers. “You know that's lunacy. Hugh worships you Jack and if you go he will follow.”_

 

_Jack clenched his jaw, gaze dropping to their hands. “Then he’ll be doing a noble thing.”_

 

_He watched with a heart heavy as lead as she pulled her fingers slowly away from his, eyes falling closed in a strange mixture of frustration and disappointment._

 

_“Phryne,” he sighed. “I need you to understand that this is something I have to do. Please.”_

 

_She shook her head, eyes cold as she met his. “No, Jack, I need_ you _to understand. I need you to understand that if you do this, if you go to war and let Hugh follow you, if he doesn't come back and you leave Dot a widow and their children fatherless. If you go and…” she trailed off and he blinked in surprise to see the dampness in her otherwise icy gaze. “Jack if you go to war and don't come back… if you die on me in some godforsaken French field somewhere after you made me love you, I will never forgive you.”_

 

_Jack paused for a moment, shocked by her words. It wasn't that he didn't know she loved him – that was a conversation of many years ago now, on a distant harbour after a voyage worth every day it had taken. He knew she loved him, but she was a creature of action far more than words, that love evident more in the way she looked at him, the things she did for him, the partnership she had many years ago decided she would be happy to commit to with him. It wasn't something she often_ said _, and it always showed gravity when she did._

 

_There was no doubt she was serious, and he wished more than anything that he could give her what she wanted, but this was bigger than him, bigger than her, bigger than the both of them._

 

_He took a cautious step forwards, reaching one hand towards her. “Phryne?” he inquired, keeping his voice soft. He needed her to listen, but he wouldn't push._

 

_“I can't, Jack,” she whispered. “I can't look at you.” And with that she’d pulled the dining room door open and disappeared up the stairs, leaving him staring brokenly after her, too concerned even to be indignant at the decidedly open parlour door, and the reserved, guilty expressions on all their friends faces._

 

.

 

It had hurt, every moment of the build up to him shipping out. Every silent meal, every murder scene she failed to show her face at. It had hurt more than anything because more than anything he couldn't bear to think they might part on those terms. The idea of leaving her was hard enough, but the idea of leaving her with things the way they had been was far worse.

 

Worse still was the way a teary Dot had turned up silently on the steps of Wardlow, all three of the children trailing behind her, and he had watched as Phryne beckoned them in without a word but a filthy look in his direction.

 

All that division had been the last thing he ever wanted, and he hated that his decision was causing everyone so much hurt. He couldn't back down on it, though, no matter what - and he knew that underneath her anger Phryne knew that. He would not be the man he had always tried to be, the man she herself admitted to loving, if he did.

 

Jack fidgeted on his makeshift mattress, turning onto his back and opening his eyes. Sleep wasn't coming tonight at all, it seemed, and he might as well enjoy the stars in the meantime. In the distance he could hear the sound of bombing and it filled him with the same dread he felt every time the noise reached him, constantly fearing for her safety.

 

It was ironic, really, that they had fought so long and fiercely over him going only for her to be the one who had ended up in the more likely line of fire. It scared him, constantly, and that if nothing else made him wish his noble nature had failed when she wished it had. It made him wish he had never gone in the first place, stayed in Melbourne where she'd wanted him to, safe behind his desk with her perched on it where she belonged. Where they both belonged.

 

It wasn't him though, just as in the end – much as he had suspected from the start – it wasn't her either. They had both devoted their lives to doing the right thing, to fighting tooth and nail for justice and good to prevail, and in the end it had made sense that both of them would be held hostage by that instinct.

 

.

 

_“How long?” Her voice came from the doorway, and he startled, looking up from the whisky he had been drinking alone. He blinked a little, shaking off the shock that came in her speaking to him._

 

_Her words had been sparse and precious in recent weeks._

 

_“Er, ten days,” he replied, placing down his glass and standing as she stepped into the room. “The ship leaves for London on the sixteenth.”_

 

_She nodded, expression unreadable, and he watched her intently, a frown creasing his forehead._

 

_“I suppose I should pack, then,” she said, and his mouth fell open._

 

_“You…_ pack _?” he asked._

 

_Her gaze lifted to his, face serene save for the glint of resolve visible in her bright eyes._

 

_“You were right, Jack.”_

 

_He balked._ “What?”

 

_“I can't sit here safe and sound whilst evil is out there any more than you can.”_

 

_He winced as she threw his own words back at him, panic setting in. “Phryne, what are you planning to do?” he demanded._

 

_She folded her arms across herself. “The French hospitals are already overwhelmed, they need all the help they can get. I've spoken to several of my friends in the British Army, there are doctors and nurses shipping out there every week and they’d welcome another set of hands.”_

 

_He stared at her, speechless._

 

_“Aren't you going to try and talk me out of it?” she asked, one eyebrow raised in challenge and he took a long, steadying breath, processing._

 

_“Would you listen if I did?”_

 

_“No.”_

 

_He shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite the fear her announcement was twisting his stomach with._

 

_“Are you laughing?” she demanded, indignant, and he shook his head in denial even as the sound escaped his mouth unbidden. “You are laughing!”_

 

_“I'm sorry,” he gasped out as the laughter rumbled through him, holding a hand up in an attempt to placate her. “Really,” he coughed, doing his best to control himself. “I am.”_

 

_She stared at him with wide eyes, arms still folded across her chest, and expression deeply unimpressed._

 

_“I fail to see what's so amusing, Jack. This isn't a joke, I'm going.”_

 

_“No, no, it's not that,” he replied quickly, sobering again. “It's just…”_

 

_“Just what?” she pressed as he trailed off._

 

_“I…” He looked up at her, all humour disappeared as fast as it had come. “I'm terrified,” he admitted, and her face fell._

 

_“Oh.”_

 

_They stood in silence then, staring at each other with words hanging unsaid between them. Eventually she moved, walking across to him and placing a gentle hand on his cheek. He leant into it almost subconsciously, starved of her touch as he had been._

 

_“Me too,” she breathed, and he pulled her in to him, sighing his relief into her as she allowed their lips to touch. They kissed softly for several moments, none of the urgency or heat that so often lay behind the action. They were the kind of kisses he most enjoyed, intimate and affectionate, the kind of kisses he knew she had reserved only for him even when her others hadn't been._

 

_“You know I understand, don't you?” She asked after they parted, eyes locked on his. “You know it's not… I'm not angry with_ you _, Jack.”_

 

_“I know,” he reassured her, running a hand up her arm in a soothing gesture. “Or at least, I’d hoped.”_

 

_“I still wish you wouldn't go,” she admitted, laying her head against his shoulder and sighing._

 

_“As do I,” he breathed, pressing a kiss into her hair._

 

_“But we have to, don't we?”_

 

_“We who aren't afraid of shadows,” he murmured, and she let out a soft chuckle raising her head to kiss him again._

 

_“Promise you'll be careful?” she asked, eyes earnest._

 

_He nodded. “Promise me you’ll be careful too.”_

 

.

 

Jack sighed, staring up at stars that glared back at him coldly. They’d had minimal contact in the months since they’d both left London, shipping out in different directions to fight an unimaginable fight. He’d managed to send the odd letter here and there, but for the most part he moved too fast and unreliably to be sure of a response, and more often than not disclosing his location wasn't allowed anyway.

 

It didn't stop him missing her words, missing her face, and her voice, and her touch. He missed her more than he thought possible, and he wished he knew how long the war would go if only it could help him count down the days until he knew he might see her again.

 

He was determined that he _would_ see her again, the thought of the alternate too terrible to consider. The war would end one day, and when it did they would be reunited. He had to believe that, even if the belief wasn’t enough to trick him into sleep.

 

In the meantime, other than the cold stars and the sound of distant bombing, all he had was a memory – still sweet even after all this time – of the last time he had had a good night’s sleep.

 

.

 

_“I’ll write to you.”_

 

_“You know that won’t be possible, I’ll be moving around too much,” he sighed into her hair._

 

_“Then I’ll write the letters and keep them for you to read once we’re home.” She shifted, lifting her head to prop an arm between her chin and his chest, eyes on his._

 

_“Phryne, you know we might –”_

 

_“Shush.” She leant up and kissed the doubt from his lips. “If we can survive one war, Jack Robinson, then we can easily survive another.”_

 

_They descended into silence again, Phryne settling herself back on his chest, curling around him as if she never wanted to let go – an idea he’d be quite happy with himself. The silence lasted so long he assumed she’d long fallen asleep when she sighed, breath hot against his skin._

 

_“Love you,” she mumbled, and he looked down to see her eyes fall closed._

 

_“You too,” he breathed, warmth and contentment eclipsing the terror and sadness that had been growing within him for weeks, if only for a moment. He closed his eyes, pulling her closer, and letting his own eyes fall shut._

 

_No matter what happened tomorrow, or in the weeks to come, in this moment they were safe and happy and together, and that was the memory he would take with him when he marched onto a ship bound for France in the morning. Who knew what awaited him, awaited them both, who knew what sleepless nights might be upon them once they were parted, but for now they were together, and he wouldn’t waste that feeling._

 

_For now, he could sleep._

 


	4. "No, stop!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her heart pounded in her ears, hand tightening around her own pistol. It was a gamble. The minute she moved there could be lead in Jack’s skull, but she had to try. 
> 
> Teen and Up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of what will likely be a few combined prompts throughout the month: No. 4 "No, stop!" with No. 23 Self-sacrifice. Thank you for reading!

 

Much as she loved a good chase, Phryne wished this particular chasee would just _give up_ already. Her feet throbbed as she ran over the shining, dark cobbles, and she wished – not for the first time – that criminals couldn’t just give her a heads up every once in a while so she could change out of her heels before having to run after them. Alas, life wasn’t so simple, and thus she was at least half a mile already into a decidedly exhausting pursuit.

 

Her target rounded another corner, and she cursed, speeding up and skidding around it after him, only to feel her heart sink at the empty street beyond.

 

“ _Damn!_ ” she exclaimed, slapping a hand against a wall in sheer frustration. She threw her head back, pulling off her hat and ruffling her hair with irritated strokes of her fingers. She’d nearly had him, and now all that running was for nothing. What a complete and utter waste.

 

She turned, huffing, supposing she may as well make the long trek back to where she and Jack had agreed to meet, when a rustling behind her made her stop. The noise came again, followed by the muffled sound of voices and she reached for her gun, pointing it out into the dark alley beyond. She crept along, one hand against the wall, the other holding the pistol, the noises getting louder as she approached. Soon enough she could make out words.

 

“Whaddya mean ‘what do we do with ‘im?’ - we kill ‘im of course!”

 

“But the boss said it was just the lady who we-”

 

“I _know_ what the boss said, Wally, but we can't exactly let ‘im go now, can we?”

 

“‘Spose he is a copper, makes sense to get rid of ‘im.”

 

Phryne’s blood ran cold, freezing her in a place for a moment as she took in their words. Jack had been out here too, searching for evidence same as she, completely unaware of the suspect she’d interrupted in the middle of proceedings. Jack had been out here, and now could it be that they had Jack? She steeled herself, continuing to creep along, finally close enough to see her culprits. The one she'd been chasing, Wally, had a gun which he was aiming casually at an unmoving figure on the floor, and as she saw it she felt her heart rate quicken.

 

If Wally had a gun he could have turned around and shot her at any point, would have had her right where he wanted her, but he hadn't. Instead he’d lured her through winding streets to this particular alleyway – where her would-be lover was lying prone across the cobbles.

 

It was a trap. Had to be.

 

“Go on then,” the other guy said, gesturing with his head towards Jack’s still form, and Wally cocked the gun. “Shoot ‘im.”

 

A trap she was willing to walk into.

 

“No, stop!”

 

Both men whipped around at the sound of her voice, and as she stepped from the shadows, hands in the air, she saw them smile.

 

“Told ya, Wally, easy as piss.”

 

Wally turned the gun from Jack to her, and she lifted her hands into the air, glancing down to see if she could see any movement from Jack’s still form, any sign of life. Even if it was her they were after, Jack was still a cop, and vulnerable. She may not be able to get herself out of this one just yet, but she could save Jack.

 

“Let him go,” she told them, and they looked at each other and laughed.

 

“I don’t think you’re really in a position to make requests,” the one who wasn’t Wally said, drawing a gun of his own and pointing it at Jack. “Now come ‘ere.”

 

Phryne cast her gaze to the floor again and felt a wave of relief as she saw Jack stir. He was still alive, injured clearly, but alive. That made this easier.

 

“No,” she told them firmly. “Not until you let him go.”

 

“I told you -”

 

“And I told you,” she gritted out, hand moving to her waist quick as a flash and pulling her own gun, aiming it at Wally. The two seemed startled but gathered themselves quickly, the other one stepping towards Jack and pulling him upright by the collar. Phryne watched in horror as he pushed the barrel of his gun into Jack’s temple and moved her arm in response, swinging it around to train it on the other man’s head instead. “Don’t think I’m afraid to get you right between the eyes, even if you stand behind him,” she growled.

 

“I’m sure you’re a fantastic shot, Miss Fisher,” he sneered back. “Question is, who do you think is faster?”

 

He cocked the gun.

 

Her heart pounded in her ears, hand tightening around her own pistol. It was a gamble. The minute she moved there could be lead in Jack’s skull, but she had to try. She felt her chest tighten with fear, but took a deep breath, swallowing it down. She knew what she was doing, she was sure this would work.

 

“Fine,” she told him, voice steady, “then explain to your boss why I ended up with a bullet in my head instead of wherever it is I assume you’re supposed to be delivering me to alive.”

 

The both of them frowned for a second, confused just long enough for her to turn her gun around and press the cold metal against her own temple. Their eyes widened, and she delighted in the knowledge she’d got them.

 

“Let him go,” she told them again, “or explain why you failed to do your job.”

 

Both men looked at each other, and Wally shook his head ever so slightly at the other one.

 

She cocked her gun.

 

“Let. Him. Go.”

 

Not-Wally relaxed, turning his pistol skyward and releasing Jack’s collar. She watched, distressed, as he slumped back to the floor with a small groan – wishing more than anything that she could go to him. It wasn’t an option, however, the knowledge of his life would have to do. She watched as both guns turned on her.

 

“Alright, love, you got us. Now you gonna come quietly?”

 

She looked from Jack to them and back again, taking several steps forward until she was physically between them. “And where is it you’d like me to go exactly?” she asked.

 

“Boss wants a word,” Not-Wally told her unhelpfully, and she sighed.

 

“And who exactly is the ‘boss’, hmm? You can’t expect me to allow myself to be kidnapped just for that, surely?”

 

They looked at each other, perplexed.

 

“Fine,” she huffed. “Then let’s go back to where we’re going.”

 

“Why would we tell you that?” Wally asked, tightening his grip on his pistol.

 

“Because,” she replied with an overexaggerated sigh, “I assume I’ll either be doing something for or dead at the hand of your employer by this time tomorrow, so does it really matter if you tell me where it is we’re going? Come on, humour me.”

 

They shared another look, shifting. “If we tell you,” Not-Wally started, “you give us the pistol.”

 

Phryne rolled her eyes. Amateurs. “No, the pistol stays until we are far _far_ away and I’m sure you can’t hurt him. You tell me where we’re going because I asked.”

 

Wally cocked his gun. “Don’t get smart, lady.”

 

“Well one of us has to.”

 

His face screwed up in anger, but Not-Wally threw out a hand, steadying Wally’s arm. “Easy there, tiger. Bad enough if she does ‘erself in but we’ll definitely be dead if you lose yer temper.” He turned, looking at Phryne. “We’re goin’ to the docks. That alright by yer majesty?”

 

She smirked, satisfied. “Perfectly. Now why don’t you lead the way?”

 

.

 

The sounds of gunfire broke through the concentration she had been lost in, bringing her to attention.

 

“Filthy cop bastard!” she heard someone yell, followed by the unmistakable sound of flesh beating flesh.

 

Jack was here then, she surmised, a small pang of disappointment following the thought. She’d been working on an escape plan for several hours, working her way up to it, but now if Jack was here that would ruin all her fun.

 

Not to mention remove her of the great satisfaction of saving both herself and him all in the same day. Still, her chair was uncomfortable and she was beginning to get nasty rope burn from where she had been slowly working at her restraints, so there was that.

 

“Phryne?” she heard her name called and did her best to respond around the old rag in her mouth, the sound coming out more ‘ack’ than ‘Jack’ but she supposed it would do.

 

“ _Phryne_?”

 

His voice was full of panic, the use of her given name only intensifying it, and she felt her heart swell a little at the sound. He rounded a corner, gun drawn, and face serious despite the ruffled hair and trail of blood that told of his earlier injury.

 

“Phryne!” he called, running immediately to her, releasing his gun as his hands flew to her face, pulling the rag from her mouth with gentle fingers. “Are you alright, did they hurt you?” He demanded, and she shook her head, breathless in the face of his worry.

 

“No,” she told him. “No, I’m fine – I don’t believe their leader is even back from the pub yet. Honestly, Jack, these must be the laziest criminals I’ve ever met.”

 

He huffed out a laugh, but his hand stayed at her face, cupping her cheek.

 

“I don’t care if they’re the stupidest fools in all Australia, please never do that again.”

 

She frowned. “Do what?”

 

He fixed her with a look so heartbroken it made her chest tighten. “Sacrifice yourself for me.”

 

Oh. _Oh_. So he had heard? Despite his incapacitated state he had still heard, seen even? At the very least been aware of what she had done. That was not something she had been expecting. He’d seemed so unaware in the alley, barely able to move let alone – or so she’d thought – register what was going on around him.

 

And she had rather played her hand.

 

“It was nothing, Jack… just a trick.” She told him, painting on a smile to sell the lie.

 

“Putting a gun to your head was just a trick?”

 

“You saw that?” she asked, unable to help herself and then cursing internally the moment that she had.

 

“I saw enough, you just confirmed the rest.” The hand dropped from her face and he stood, moving around her to loosen the ties that still fixed her to the chair. She stood, flexing her muscles thankfully, and turned to where he was holstering his gun.

 

“Jack?”

 

He didn’t answer.

 

“Jack, it was the only way,” she protested, reaching for his arm and taking comfort at least in that he didn’t shake her off.

 

“I know,” he sighed, looking back at her. “And I’m grateful – of course I am – but it doesn’t change the fact I’ve never been more scared in all my life.”

 

She stroked her hand up his arm, settling it at his neck and stroking a thumb across his beautiful jaw. “I know the feeling.”

 

He let out another somewhat humourless chuckle, reaching up to grab her hand, eyes not leaving hers. “I would have taken a bullet in my brain over having to watch you do that,” he whispered, and she felt her heartbeat stutter at the weight of his words.

 

“I didn’t know you were watching,” she admitted, feeling caught. Exposed in emotion she hadn’t quite been ready to put a name to, emotion that inspired her into action but not confession. She’d hoped he might have caught the tail end of the conversation, picked up on the location she’d wheedled out of them, but nothing else. Had she known then… well, it wouldn’t have changed anything if she was honest. It had been the best option to ensure his safety, and she’d do it again in a heartbeat.

 

“I was,” he responded. “Please, don’t do it again.”

 

“How about I just make sure you’re unconscious next time?” she quipped, trying to lighten the mood, to lift the haunted look from Jack’s eye.

 

“Phryne.”

 

“I can’t, Jack,” she sighed. “You know I can’t make that promise any more than you could. I will always save you, if I can. Surely you understand that?”

 

He was silent for a minute, then sighed himself, eyes falling closed. “I do. I just wish you wouldn’t.”

 

“Likewise!” she shot back, indignant. “I had a wonderful plan for my escape, you know, and you’ve ruined all my fun.”

 

He blinked at her, shaking his head. “My apologies, Miss Fisher. How about I tie you back up and leave so you can carry on like nothing happened?”

 

She smirked, the fingers still at his jaw stroking back down to toy with the collar of his shirt. “Well you’re welcome to tie me up, Inspector, but I wouldn’t want you going anywhere afterwards.”

 

Jack’s eyes glinted at the flirtation, the sorrow finally lessening a little. “I’m not sure this is the best place for that.”

 

“You have a better suggestion?” she purred, and he raised an eyebrow.

 

“I can think of a few.”

 

Her eyes dropped to his lips, settling there for a moment before flicking back up, meeting his gaze once more and watching the joke fade back down. “I can’t promise not to do it again, Jack,” she breathed, watching intently for the moment she feared was coming, the one she’d seen once before after a car crash and a conversation that haunted her. It didn’t come.

 

“I know,” he murmured, and his eyes were full of resignation, but not the pain she had feared, and she felt relief rush through her. “I know.”

 

“Would it make you feel better if I let you save me once a month?” she asked in jest, attempting to joke once more, and smiled to see his lips pulling up at the corners.

 

“I’d rather you not need saving in the first place,” he replied. “But if, or rather _when_ you do – I’m sure you’ll be more than capable of handling it yourself.”

 

She grinned. “That’s true.”

 

“Though if you ever needed it… know I’d gladly give my life for yours.”

 

She stared at him, all her witty replies choked in her throat by her own confession, the confession she had not quite been able to bring herself to make yet. Then the word bubbled out quite of its own accord.

 

“Likewise.”

 

And he kissed her, firm but loving, fierce but careful, the restraint evident behind the passion. She tilted her head, opening her mouth to him in a silent gesture of permission, and the restraint shattered. One hand snaked around her neck, pulling her closer and angling her head so he could deepen the kiss further, the other flew to her waist, pulling their bodies flush and eliminating every gap of air left between them. Her own arms wrapped around him, fingers tangling into his hair and stroking down his back, relishing in the feeling of his hands finally, _finally_ being on her.

 

“That’s all of them I think, sir, just - _ohh_.”

 

They jumped apart, turning to where Collins was standing looking like a goldfish staring at them.

 

“I… sorry… I was just…” He turned, looking back the direction he’d come and then back to them, not looking either of them in the eye. “I’ll just… go,” he concluded, and scurried off quickly back the way he’d come.

 

Phryne couldn’t suppress the giggle, one hand coming to cover her mouth. “I think we may have just scarred him for life, Jack.”

 

Jack shrugged, reaching for her arm and pulling her back into him. “I’m sure he’ll get over it.”

 

“Not if we keep reminding him about it,” she smirked.

 

“Now wouldn’t that be a shame?”

 

“Terrible.”

 

She smiled as he leant back in to kiss her again, softer this time, and her eyes fluttered closed at the feeling, only opening again when he eventually pulled back.

 

“I meant it you know,” he told her, voice low and blue eyes burning, and she stroked a hand across his cheek. How this beautiful man had managed to steal her heart so thoroughly yet with such little fanfare she didn’t know, but she supposed that was the whole point. Her heart was something she had had no inclination to give, so of course it would be a man like Jack Robinson – who would never expect her to – to find herself wanting to give it. And give it she would, for Jack. Body, heart, life.

 

“Me too,” she told him, and leant in to press their lips together once more. “Anytime.”

 


	5. Poisoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne is convinced she’s been poisoned. She’s certainly throwing up like she has been. Teen and Up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one today, that just sorta happened. I don’t know how I feel about it, but here it is all the same. Thank you so much to everyone for the lovely feedback, and for stopping by in general.

 

 

“Jack, you need to come – quickly!”

 

Jack sighs, eyes flicking briefly up to the clock on his wall. Eleven minutes since he left the house - this had to be a record. He’s barely taken off his hat.

 

“Is there a murderer in the house, again?” he asks, lips curving into smile as he leans back in his chair. She doesn’t respond. The smile droops a little.

 

“Phryne?”

 

“Not in the house, no.”

 

The smile dissipates completely.

 

“What do you mean ‘not in the house’?” he demands, every trace of his previous amusement gone.

 

She doesn’t answer, and his grip tightens around the receiver. “ _Phryne_?”

 

“Jack, I…” He hears the gasp of air she lets out on the other end and rises half out of his chair.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Jack, I think… I think I’ve been poisoned,” she whispers.

 

His heart drops to his stomach.

 

“You what?”

 

“I think I’ve been poisoned, Jack,” she repeats, as if he really needs to hear it. He does a little, he supposes, the words sounding hollow and fake in his ears. It can’t be true, she must be mistaken. Surely? She has to be. He takes a deep breath, trying to retain even the smallest sense of calm.

 

“What are your symptoms?”

 

“Chills, dizziness, nausea, weakness.  And my fingers are tingling. Something’s not right, Jack, I’m telling you,” she insists.

 

“Have you called Doctor MacMillan?” he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose and focusing on his breathing. Even if she has been poisoned she’s still _alive_ , so it can’t be fast acting or a particularly high dose. They ate breakfast a good hour earlier. Whatever it was, maybe the Doctor could help.

 

“No, Jack, I called you!”

 

Warmth blooms through him at the same time as annoyance. “What good am I going to be if you _have_ been poisoned?” he inquires, exasperated.

 

“Vengeance?” she asks, and he rolls his eyes.

 

“Call Mac, _now_ ,” he commands. “I’m coming home.”

 

With that he hangs up, taking a moment to steady himself against his desk before grabbing his hat. She’s mistaken, has to be. She’ll be fine, he knows she will.

 

He knows she’ll be fine.

 

.

 

“Phryne?” he calls, urgent, as he opens the front door.

 

“In here!” Mac’s voice comes from the parlour and he throws his hat at the hook before pushing the door open, throat tightening at the sight in front of him. Phryne is laid out across the chaise, eyes not quite closed but not open, unfocussed and distant. She doesn’t even seem to notice his presence in the room. His eyes roam over her, taking in the sheen of sweat glowing against slightly greyed skin. Her makeup is a little smudged, the lipstick he’d deliberately – and much to her feigned annoyance – caused her to redo once already that morning is all but gone, her lips dry and colourless.

 

“Is she alright?” he asks on a hushed breath. Stupid question, he knows, but he needs Mac to talk, reasonable thought seeming to have departed from the moment his eyes fell on her.

 

“That depends on your definition of alright,” the Doctor replies unhelpfully. “If you’re asking if she’s going to live – the answer’s yes.”

 

He breathes a sigh of relief, the tremendous weight of his terror lifting from his shoulders. “It’s not poison?”

 

“Well.” Mac gives a small tilt of her head. “It’s not dissimilar.”

 

Jack’s forehead creases, confused. “How so, Doctor?”

 

She shrugs. “Foreign presence in the body causing chemical imbalances.”

 

The frown on Jack’s brow only deepens, looking from Mac to Phryne and back again. “What foreign presence I don’t –”

 

Mac raises an eyebrow at him, folding her arms across her chest, and he feels his mouth fall open almost before his brain consciously catches on.

 

Oh.

 

Oh _no_.

 

“Mac, tell me she’s not…”

 

The Doctor sighs, turning to look at where Phryne is going decidedly green, and shoving a basin back in front of her just in time. Jack averts his eyes, mind racing.

 

“Congratulations, Inspector,” Mac shoots back at him with a brief glance downwards after she’s ensured her friend isn’t going to vomit all over her perfect carpet, “it works.”

 

Jack swallows, taking a step back towards the door. “Doctor MacMillan, a word?”

 

He strides back out of the parlour, bracing his hands on the opposite door frame and staring listlessly at the dining table where he and Phryne had been having breakfast not two hours earlier.

 

He hears the Doctor’s step behind him, the parlour door clicking shut. “Don’t blame yourself, it happens. Assuming you were, in fact, taking precautions. Otherwise ignore that statement and please feel free to blame yourself as much as possible.”

 

He turns around, a lump in his throat so large he barely knows how to speak around it.

 

“What do we do?” he demands, and she puts her hands on her hips, staring him down.

 

“I’m not sure that’s really your decision, Jack.”

 

He rolls his eyes. “Well obviously not I just mean… can you… can you…” He trails off, feeling a little nauseous himself. He’s seen and shut down too many illicit abortion rings in his time, arrested too many quacks who’ve all but butchered their desperate victims. He knows the risks are high and multitudinous, even with a skilled doctor like Mac. He swallows thickly. “Can you help her?”

 

Mac’s eyebrows sky rocket. “Are you asking me if I can break the law?” she asks. “I’m shocked, Inspector.”

 

He takes a deep breath, not answering. He can’t answer, really, shouldn’t have even asked the question. The law is the law even if he doesn’t agree with it, and he is a servant of the law. He needs to not know.

 

“I’m not asking anything,” he grumbles, and she narrows her eyes at him but says nothing for several moments.

 

“You don’t need to worry, Jack,” she says finally. “Everything will be just fine.”

 

“You don’t know that,” he shoots back, the worry still twisting at his stomach. He’s sure he knows what Phryne will want, and he wants whatever she wants – quite content with the life they have – but he’s still worried. Worried about her getting hurt, worried about Mac getting caught, worried – honestly – about her reaction to the whole situation once she’s done vomiting.

 

“Tea?” Mac asks then instead of answering, breaking through his stupor of panic, and he straightens himself up and nods.

 

“Tea,” he agrees – the rest can come later.

 

.

 

“Where’s Mac?”

 

He startles from his book at the sound of her voice, jumping immediately to his feet and crossing from his chair to the bed and taking a cautious seat on the edge of it. She looks groggy, but the sickly pallor has lifted, her colour somewhat returned.

 

“She’s gone,” he says as softly as he can. “She had to go back to the hospital, but she said to call if you need her to come back, any time.” He does his best to smile, but his own nervousness makes it hard. She’s yet to look him in the eye, after all. They sit in silence for what seems like an age before she finally speaks – though when her words come they shock him.

 

“I’m sorry, Jack.”

 

His head snaps up to find her eyes fixed on him, sorrow swimming in the blue of them.

 

“Sorry?” he asks, unable to keep the shock out of his voice. “Why on Earth are you sorry? If anyone should be apologising it’s –”

 

“No please, don’t.” She reaches out a hand and grabs one of his, wrapping their fingers together. Tension he didn’t even know was still there flows out of him at the touch, shoulders relaxing a little. “We did what we could, these things happen, I suppose.” She sounds resigned, if somewhat annoyed, and he gives a sympathetic smile.

 

“You know that I –”

 

“Oh, I know, I know, it doesn’t need saying,” she interrupts again, gaze dropping level with his tie. “And I’m sorry that this is the way it has to be, after what happened to Rosie and you, I really am.”

 

The echoes of loss flicker briefly through him, but he shakes them off, squeezing her fingers. “That was a different time, and I’m a different man than I was then.”

 

She sighs, nodding. “Can you still be sure you won’t resent me later?” she asks plainly, eyes returning to his, full of steel. “Because this is the time to pull your ‘chute if you’re not, Jack, I mean it.”

 

He leans forward enough so that their lips nearly meet, but doesn’t quite close the distance, keeping their gazes locked. “I promise to only resent things I have a right to resent you for. This isn’t something that qualifies.”

 

“You’d make a great father, Jack Robinson,” she breathes, voice full of sadness. “Are you sure you can live without being one?”

 

“I’m sure that we have quite enough children as is with all the strays you pick up, Miss Fisher,” he counters. “And I’m also sure that I thought things through a little more thoroughly than you might believe before you finally persuaded me into your bed. I knew exactly what I was choosing.”

 

She huffs a little indignantly and he smiles wide at it. “You can’t blame me for checking.”

 

“I don’t,” he tells her, and closes the distance, pressing their lips together just for a moment before pulling back. “But I do love you for it.”

 

Her mouth pulls up again in the corners.

 

“I told you I’d been poisoned,” she tells him then, and he cannot help but smirk back.

 

“You were wrong.”

 

“Only technically.”

 

“Wrong.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “I was right about one thing,” she counters and he raises an eyebrow in question. She looks up at him with her heart in her eyes, and his own heart glows in response to seeing it there. “I was right about you, Jack.”

 


	6. Betrayed (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack asked her to stop, and like usual, she ignored him. Only difference this time is the consequences. Teen and Up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have already gathered from the chapter title - we've got a two parter lads. So not an (A), but an incomplete - check back tomorrow for Part 2! Thank you so much once more for all the lovely support, and for taking the time to read!

 

It had been an infuriating case from the beginning, made only more so by his crime solving partner’s usual dogged insistence to throw herself in head first and check later.

 

He knew that her recklessness was a part of her charm as much as anything else ever would be, and he'd made a choice long ago that she was worth every headache or heartache that might cause him.

 

Still, on a day to day basis it had the tendency to be absolutely _infuriating_. Especially when the Chief Commissioner had waded in and got involved.

 

“It’s time you put an end to this, Jack,” he raged after storming into Jack’s office with an apologetic looking Phryne close behind him. “It’s unprecedented letting civilians trail around and stick their noses in police business the way this wretched woman does. Not to mention the things it’s doing to your reputation. I’d be ashamed to show my face in a cop bar from here to Ballarat.”

 

Jack took a deep breath, warring between the urge to defend both himself and Phryne, and not particularly wanting to lose the job he loved so much. “Sir, all due respect, but Miss Fisher has done a great deal to help us put terrible people where they belong. She’s done a service for this city.”

 

“Is that all she’s done a service for?”

 

His fists clenched but he saw the furious expression on Phryne’s face, and opened his mouth quickly before she could get them both in even more trouble.

 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir.” Jack replied, keeping his voice at a monotone.

 

“Is that so?” the Commissioner asked with a malicious smirk. Jack had never liked the man, aware he held a grudge against him because of his connections to Sanderson. In the new Chief Commissioner’s eyes Jack should have gone down with his ex-father-in-law, regardless of the fact it was he who’d brought him to justice in the first place.

 

“I can assure you, sir,” Jack continued, “Miss Fisher and I have a purely business relationship.”

 

He narrowed his eyes. “Irregardless,” he said. “Miss Fisher is not a member of the Victoria Police, nor is she in any way qualified – or _authorised_ – to be snooping around in cases relating to high ranking government officials. Or anyone for that matter.”

 

Jack risked a quick glance at Phryne, who was standing there looking as if butter wouldn’t melt. He sighed.

 

“Of course not, sir,” he replied, trying to keep his tone suitably amenable.

 

“Now listen here, Inspector Robinson,” he continued, waving a finger at him. “This is it, you hear? The last time. If I hear one more word, one more whisper about Miss Fisher involving herself on your murder cases, then I will not only have you removed from the Force, but I will have you both arrested for perverting the course of justice. Do I make myself quite clear?”

 

Jack clenched his jaw, taking another breath. “Perfectly, sir.”

 

“Good.” With that he turned, stopping only to glare at Phryne before striding out of the office and slamming the door behind him.

 

They stood in silence for several long minutes, the threat and its meaning hanging in the air between them. Finally, she started to speak.

 

“Jack, I -”

 

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Please just, don’t.”

 

She shut her mouth, then opened it again. “But Jack I found thi–”

 

“Phryne,” he gritted out. “Do you understand what’s happening?”

 

She stared at him. “The Commissioner's got it in for me, what’s new?” she quipped. “Now do you really not want to know what I found out?”

 

“ _No_ , Phryne.” He groaned. “You understand that if I lose my job, I have nothing? My marriage ended, I gave up chances for further promotion so that I could stay in this position and help put away bad people for the rest of my life and if he takes that away I’ll have nothing – even you’ll have no use for me if I’m not a policeman.”

 

She seemed genuinely shocked by the last statement, opening her mouth yet again to respond, but he didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to think about the idea of his life without his work and without her, didn’t want to think about a life without her perched on his desk or life without even a desk for her to perch upon. Either way, he was losing those things, all because she hadn’t been able to listen to him and wait before wading in just _once_.

 

“Miss Fisher, will you just go. Please? I need to be alone.”

 

“But Jack I –”

 

“Please?” he begged, turning eyes he knew to be filled with heartache on her. He was angry at her, but more he found the anger was turned inward, and he didn’t want to take either of those out on her any further. Better she just leave so he couldn’t say anything he might later regret. “Please?” he asked again when she didn’t move, and she seemed to come to, as if she’d been frozen on the spot and his word had woken her up.

 

“Fine,” she breathed. “Fine if that’s what you want, I’ll go.”

 

“It is,” he replied, and she nodded, her own expression oddly mournful.

 

“Will I see you later?” she asked, and he shook his head.

 

“I need to work the case before the Commissioner decides I’m unable to do my job without you.”

 

She gave another brief nod of her head and made for the door, turning once briefly as she reached it, looking as if she wanted to say something, but clearly thought better of it and left without another word. He slumped down into his chair, face falling into his hands. He hated this, hated sending her away, but he didn’t know what else to do. He had no doubts that the Commissioner would quite happily see him go down, see them _both_ go down, and he wouldn’t be responsible for the both of them ending up in jail. Even if it made her mad at him.

 

He sighed, turning back to the files on his desk and doing his best to concentrate. He was good at his job, had been before her and could be again now without her, that was just the way it would have to be. If boredom was the price it took to protect them, to protect her, then happily he would pay it.

 

.

 

“Inspector Robinson, I am arresting you for perverting the course of justice by knowingly allowing a civilian to conduct police investigations, and investigating suspect’s homes and effects with no warrant or lawful backing.”

 

Jack was in shock, unable even to resist the feel of his hands being cuffed behind his back.

 

He didn’t know how she could have done this, didn’t understand how she could keep going even now, even having known what would happen to him. And she was nowhere to be seen. It didn’t make any sense.

 

“Do you have anything to say, Inspector?” the Commissioner asked, a contented glint in his dark eyes, and Jack stared back at him, defiant.

 

“Not a word.”

 

“Hmm, well, maybe that will change when we find Miss Fisher. Constable?” he asked over his shoulder, and Hugh took a terrified step forward. “Put the Inspector in the cells.”

 

“I…” Hugh began, and the Commissioner turned on him.

 

“What’s the matter, Constable? Your Inspector is a criminal, it’s where he belongs. Now do as you’re told.”

 

Hugh hesitated again but Jack caught his eye. “It’s alright, Hugh.”

 

The Constable nodded, taking a deep breath and stepping forward to put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him out of the office and towards the cell. He couldn’t help but flinch a little at the sound of it locking behind him.

 

“I’m so sorry, sir.” Hugh muttered, and Jack shot him a smile he tried to make reassuring.

 

“It’s okay, Hugh. He’s right.”

 

Hugh opened his mouth to say something, but the sound of the Commissioner calling made the words seemingly die on his tongue, turning and heading back out to the front, throwing one more apologetic glance over his shoulder as he went.

 

Jack sat down heavily, rubbing a hand across his face. He wanted to be angry, wanted to be furious, but in all honesty the more the minutes ticked by he was mostly just concerned. It had been with the sinking feeling of a man who knows his fate that he’d watched the Commissioner storm into his office again for the second time in as many days. He hadn’t heard from her from the moment he’d shooed her from his office, too angry to call even though he’d wanted to – wanted to hear her insights, get her take. That alone had concerned him, her persistent stubbornness one of the many things he fondly relied on from her even in the moments it was infuriating, and he’d worried in the knowledge that even with the Commissioner’s threat she was still planning something.

 

Evidently, he had been right.

 

What he didn’t understand, though, was where she was. The Commissioner had said she had been seen at the Judge’s house, snooping through documents in his private office again, but apparently she had run the moment the Judge had seen her. That Phryne Fisher could outrun a balding, overweight, sixty-year-old man Jack had no doubt, but what didn’t add up to him at all was her running in the first place. She would know if she had been seen and would know the Judge knew who she was. In which case her running was not a case of saving either of them their fate, but merely of cowardice.

 

And Phryne Fisher was no coward, this he knew.

 

He was angry, beyond angry. Hurt and betrayed that she had gone in the first place when she knew what was at risk, but the idea that she would run and leave him alone to take this? That, he couldn’t even believe in his anger, and the alternatives that began to spring to mind were distinctly frightening. He needed to speak to Hugh, to send him to Wardlow and find out where she was. The Commissioner was still there, however, the sound of his voice drifting through the open door of the cell, and Jack slammed a fist against the wall, feeling helpless.

 

He needed Hugh’s help, needed to find out what was happening, but it would just have to wait. As soon as the Commissioner left, he would get to the bottom of this.

 

.

 

“Inspector, Dottie – er, I mean Miss Williams – is here to see you, sir.”

 

Jack rose from the hard cot against the wall, striding across to the bars of his cell door. “Miss Williams,” he greeted, urgency in his voice. “Where is she?”

 

The young woman looked worried, face pale and eyes wide. “I don’t know, Inspector, I’m sorry. She never came back after last night.”

 

“What happened last night?” he asked, eager for as much information as Dot could give him. “She went back to the Judge’s house?”

 

“No,” Dot shook her head and Jack felt the frown that had been creasing his forehead all morning deepen.

 

“What?”

 

“She was going somewhere else, she said.” Dot continued. “She was upset when she got back from the station, said you were in trouble and it was her fault but that she’d found something important and you weren’t listening.” For all the concern in her voice, Jack didn’t miss the quiet chiding at her last statement, and he felt guilt wash over him. It was true, he hadn’t been.

 

“We told her to go back. Told her we were sure you’d listen if she just explained but she said it would put you at risk, said she just needed to see one more thing to be sure, and if she was right then she could take it to you and get you both out of trouble.”

 

Jack felt his heart rate start to quicken.

 

“See what? What did she find at the Judge’s house?”

 

The girl fidgeted. “I want you to know I would never normally go through Miss Phryne’s things,” she told him, seeming uncomfortable, “but I was worried, and I knew you’d want to see what she found.”

 

She reached into her handbag, pulling out a folded piece of paper and handing it to him through the bars. He unfolded it, smoothing it out and casting his eyes across it, feeling his blood run cold.

 

“Oh my god,” he breathed, terror gripping him and forcing him to stagger back a step. “Oh god, Phryne, what have you done?”

 

“Is it what I think it is?” Dot demanded, her own voice tight with fear.

 

He looked down at the words on the page in front of him, the ink staring back at him in mocking. “This is a judge’s order for early prison release, Dot,” he explained, not sure she needed it but needing to hear the words himself in confirmation. “It’s… for one thing it’s undeniable proof the judge is corrupt, that’s why she will have taken it.”

 

He heard Dot swallow and turned, seeing Hugh standing looking concerned behind her, he opened his mouth ready to answer the question he could see his Constable was so rightly afraid to ask.

 

“Who’s it for?” he asked, “Who did the Judge release?”

 

Jack swallowed, his own throat feeling like it was choking him. He needed to get out of here, needed to find her. Needed this to not be true. He looked at Dot, whose own face mirrored the panic he felt, and shook his head, still disbelieving.

 

“Inspector, who is it?”

 

He met Hugh’s eyes, taking a deep breath to steel himself in to saying the words. “Sidney Fletcher, Hugh. It’s Sidney Fletcher… he’s free.”

 


	7. Kidnapped (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne is missing. Sidney Fletcher is free. Jack's angry. Teen and Up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for Part 2 I used two prompts - Kidnap and Torture - since I figured the latter tends to come somewhat hand in hand with the former. Thank you for reading, and hope you enjoy!

 

Phryne Fisher took pride in many things, it had to be said, but one of her biggest was that she was _not_ a screamer. Not outside of the boudoir, certainly, and not when she thought it likely anyone else might hear her. It was with supreme determination, thus, that she kept her teeth gritted, jaw locked tight, and mouth firmly closed so not even a whimper could escape as the whip struck her again.

 

“I’ll give you this, Miss Fisher, you certainly know how to take a beating.”

 

“Is that what you call this?” she shot back, wincing only briefly as he reached around and slapped her.

 

“You might want to take this a little more seriously, Miss Fisher,” Sidney spat back. “I’m not sure you understand quite how angry I am.”

 

She rolled her eyes, biting down on her tongue again in anticipation of the whip connecting once more with the flayed skin of her back.

 

“You ruined everything for me, you know that?” he continued, and she sighed. The pain he’d inflicted on her in the last however many hours had been awful, yes, and the sooner she could devise an escape plan the better since she knew the longer she was here the less able she would be to carry out any plan she might hatch. She was in pain, considerable pain, and she wanted an escape from it.

 

“I had the perfect life, a thriving business, money, respect, the Police Commissioner in my pocket, his daughter in my bed. I had everything just right… and you just had to go and ruin it.”

 

Still though, the real torture was him talking.

 

“I thought you just didn’t like my hats,” Phryne quipped, a soft breath of pain escaping afterwards at the sharp sting of the leather striking her.

 

“Watch your tongue, Miss Fisher,” he growled, stepping around to face her and pulling a knife from his pocket. “Or I’ll cut it out.”

 

She clenched her jaw again, raising an eyebrow at him in challenge but saying nothing – just in case he really meant the threat. She loved her tongue far too much to risk losing it.

 

“That’s better,” he smirked. “I wonder if Jack Robinson knows it’s so easy to shut you up.”

 

She sneered at him, the mention of Jack stinging just as much as the cuts in her back. She had hurt him, she knew, concerned more than anything at the idea the Chief Commissioner would follow through on his threat to arrest him. She couldn’t be sorry for what she’d uncovered, though. She hadn’t meant to get him in such trouble, never did, but she couldn’t stop investigating just because someone threatened her, if anything it was only more of a reason, and she knew Jack understood that under his anger. Or at least, she hoped.

 

She’d taken it too far, she knew she had, and his reaction had made that clear, but she’d been angry herself. Angry because if he’d just got over his hurt and listened for a moment then he’d have seen that the secrets she was uncovering might get them both out of the trouble she’d just landed them in. That was why she hadn’t stopped, couldn’t stop. For all the risks, for all it might make him hate her, the alternative – letting Sidney escape and a corrupt judge go undiscovered – was unacceptable. She loved Jack, had for a long time as ready or not as she may have been to admit it, but for all she loved him she would take him hating her a thousand times over the idea of Fletcher going back into business.

 

She just couldn’t allow it, so she’d made the choice. She’d snuck out to the prison and watched from the shadows as the Judge had shaken Sidney’s hand and he had stepped out into the free world as if he deserved to be there. She’d slipped into the Hispano and followed their car, lightless, through winding roads to the docks, and listened in dismay as they discussed plans for his passage to China the following day. She had sent up a silent prayer to a God she wasn’t altogether sure she believed in and a silent plea to Jack that he might find it in his heart to forgive her, and then she had waited for the Judge to depart, cocked her gun, and stepped out of the shadows to face down a monster.

 

It hadn’t gone completely to plan, in that she hadn’t got a chance to shoot him in the kneecap before a lackey had removed her of her pistol, but in one respect she had managed to achieve her goal. She had distracted him. Sidney was still here, even if he wasn’t in custody yet he was still in an abandoned warehouse in Melbourne not a boat to China. All she needed was to buy time, to stall him, then either she would escape and disarm him or someone would find her, and either way Sidney would be caught.

 

In the meantime she just needed to keep her mouth shut.

 

.

 

“I’m going to ask you one more time, Judge Hastings. Where is Sidney Fletcher?”

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be behind bars for obstruction right now, Inspector? You must be awfully careless with your keys, Constable,” he tutted turning to Hugh, who shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

 

“I asked you a question,” Jack growled. “Where is Sidney Fletcher?”

 

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

Jack’s jaw clenched, his hands tightening into fists. “Yes,” he grit out, slamming the release order down on the table. “You do.”

 

The judge’s eyes widened a little, coughing. “I’ve never seen that before,” he protested, folding his arms across his chest, but the lie was obvious. Jack had him, he knew he did.

 

“You have because you signed it two days ago, authorising the unlawful release of a man convicted to a minimum sentence of ten years. So, what did he offer you? A cut of the profits once he was back in business? Perhaps a nice young girl of your own?”  


“Really, this is ridiculous!” the Judge protested and Jack stood, placing his hands flat on the table and leaning forward.

 

“No, but I’m sure it could get that way. You see I have reason to suspect that Sidney Fletcher is holding someone very dear to me, Judge. I’m a desperate man, so I wouldn’t tempt me if I were you.”

 

The Judge swallowed, clearly believing the threat – much to Jack’s relief. It was a dangerous bluff, but one that dishonest men were prone to believe.

 

“Fine,” he snapped. “Fine, please, there’s no need for that.”

 

Jack cocked an eyebrow and sunk slowly back into his seat. “Well then? Where is he?”

 

The other man shifted again, uneasy, and sighed. “I took him to the harbour, there was a boat bound for China this morning, he took passage on that. You won’t find him, Inspector, he’s already gone. Your Miss Fisher will be long dead by now if she tried to stop him.”

 

Jack froze, fear coursing through him. He wouldn’t believe that, couldn’t believe that. If Phryne had gone after him and still had yet to return then it had to be because she was stalling him somehow. Or else because she had smuggled passage onto a boat to China – something he honestly wouldn’t put past her. Either way, he was sure she would be fine. He was sure.

 

“Collins?” he asked, turning to his Constable. “Take Judge Hastings down to the cells. And then fetch my gun, we’re going to the harbour.”

 

He stood, barely reaching the door when it flung open in front of him, the Commissioner standing there looking murderous.

 

“What the hell is this, Constable?” he demanded of Hugh. “Last I was here was that man not in a cell locked away for perversion of the course of justice?”

 

“Well, I… yes, Commissioner, but I –” Hugh stumbled over his words and Jack interrupted.

 

“New evidence has come to light, sir, that you might want to take into consideration before you go any further.”

 

The Commissioner turned furious eyes on him. “You,” he growled. “How dare you even speak I’ll have you prosecuted to the full extent of the –”

 

He stopped abruptly, finally seeming to realise who exactly the other man in the room was.

 

“What the _hell_ are you doing interviewing a Judge, Robinson? Do you have _any_ idea –”

 

“ _Sir_ ,” Jack stopped him again, holding up a hand and reaching with the other for the paper on the table. “Before you say anything else would you just take a look at this.”

 

The Commissioner looked apoplectic, but something in Jack’s face was clearly enough to convince him at least to look. As he did, his eyes widened, travelling from the paper to Hastings and back again.

 

“Good God,” he breathed, and Jack nodded.

 

“That was why Miss Fisher broke into his house the first time – not,” he added, holding up a hand before the man could interrupt, “not that that makes it legal, but this is what she found there. And she didn’t go again last night, the Judge just made that up once he realised his copy of the order was missing so we’d be locked up before we could do anything with it. She didn’t ignore your rules, sir, nor did I – but I do believe she’s gone after Fletcher and is now in danger.”

 

The Commissioner stared down at the piece of paper again, shaking his head. “This is… unbelievable,” he sighed. “How could you, Hastings? You know what Fletcher did.”

 

Hastings levelled a glare at him. “You know what Fletcher _made_? I’ve worked my whole life putting away villains and my wife left me for a banker. Fletcher made a fortune with his business, and he promised if I let him out he’d cut me in.”

 

Jack shook his dead, disgusted.

 

“Take him to the cells, Constable,” the Commissioner said, nodding at Hugh, and Jack turned back to look at him.

 

“Sir,” he prompted again. “Please, I need to go to the harbour, I believe Miss Fisher is in danger.”

 

He considered for a moment. “Fletcher is a dangerous criminal, I’ll assemble a team to bring him in. You,” he added, “can stay here and fill in the paperwork on Judge Hastings’ arrest.”

 

“What?”

 

The smirk he’d seen not twenty-four hours ago returned to the Commissioner’s face. “I may, perhaps, have been hasty in arresting you, Inspector, but that still doesn’t mean I approve of how you handle your investigations. There are plenty of other officers perfectly capable of arresting Sidney Fletcher, I intend to lead the team myself. You, however, are far too close to this and would jeopardise the operation by being there. I’m still debating whether or not to suspend you for insubordination, so in the meantime you can stay here and do paperwork.”

 

Jack opened his mouth to protest and promptly closed it again, knowing he didn’t have much of a leg to stand on and there wasn’t much point arguing. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to take a leaf out of someone else’s book instead.

 

.

 

Phryne stared down at Sidney’s unconscious body for several moments, gun in hand. There was a part of her, a large part to be honest, that wanted to shoot. He was a monster, traded in the lives of innocents for simple profit. He didn’t really deserve his own life, if you asked her. Still, believing that and actioning it were two different things. She had helped send countless people to the gallows, but this would be different, this would make her judge, jury, and executioner all – and no one really deserved that power. She couldn’t shoot a man in cold blood, no matter how much of a monster he might be, and she sighed, placing the gun back down again long enough to reach for the ropes she’d freed herself from and tie them securely around him instead. She was far too weakened by injury to drag him out of there now, but if she left him like this it would hopefully be enough to scare off his lackeys – at least long enough for her to notify Jack.

 

She stood, retrieving her gun, and stumbling back through the maze of shipping containers she’d entered through so many hours ago. She was in pain, a lot of pain, her vision blurring with it, but she needed to make it out, needed to get as far as a telephone so someone could come and take Fletcher away, take him back to prison where he belonged. She heard a noise and she felt her heartbeat quicken, pressing herself up against a crate as she prepared to round the corner, gun drawn.

 

As she did though, she felt her entire body sway in relief, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks.

 

“Jack?” she demanded, and watched as horror mixed with relief in his face.

 

“Phryne, oh god,” he breathed, rushing to her side and steadying her, one hand on her waist, the other still clutching his gun.

 

“Jack, you’re here,” she smiled.

 

“Of course I’m here,” he told her. “I arrested Hastings, Dot brought me the release order.”

 

Her heart swelled with pride. “She did? I hoped she would. Jack, I only went because a guard approached me off the record and told me he’d heard them talking. I knew that uncovering Hastings would take the heat off you I never meant –”

 

“Shh,” he comforted. “I know, I should have listened when you tried to tell me.”

 

“I shouldn’t have taken things so far.”

 

“I’m glad you did.”

 

“I’m glad you’re here.”

 

He smiled at her, fingers digging firmer into her side as if to reassure himself she was there.

 

“Where’s Sidney?” he asked then, looking from her to her gun and back, something slightly nervous in the back of his gaze.

 

“Tied up back there,” she told him and watched, curious, as the nervousness dissipated. “I did think about shooting him,” she admitted, seeing no reason to lie to him, “but I’d already knocked him unconscious, and I found when it came to it I just couldn’t do it.”

 

“That’s because you’re a good person, Phryne,” he replied, gaze serious, earnest, and a little relieved.

 

“I wouldn’t be sorry to see him hang, though,” she stated, unashamed, and Jack’s face sobered, eyes roaming over her battered appearance.

 

“Neither would I,” he agreed.

 

She let out a shaky breath, head swimming, and she felt herself sway again, knees beginning to buckle. Jack went to slide his arm behind her but she winced as it touched her wounds and he brought his hand back instantly, tacky with her blood. She watched as his face grew thunderous.

 

“He’s lucky I’m a good man,” he growled, hand tightening a little around his own gun, and she reached down to soothe his fingers.

 

“I’m lucky you’re a good man,” she told him, reaching up and pressing her lips softly against his, sighing into the contact as he returned her kiss, hand firmly back on her waist.

 

“I’ll be a good man with no job as soon as the Commissioner finds out I was here,” he murmured and she pulled back, concerned.

 

“You mean he’s still angry… even after us uncovering Hastings?”

 

“Well he apologised for arresting me, but he was still toying with the idea of suspension – tried to make me stay behind my desk instead of coming to find you.”

 

“Hmm,” Phryne hummed, looking up at him with a slight smirk despite the pain making her temples throb. “Annoying when people tell you not to go places, isn’t it?”

 

He chuckled. “I suppose I see why you might feel the need – on special occasions,” he added though, sternly.

 

“Oh come on, Jack, admit it. You enjoy being rebellious with me.”

 

He watched her carefully, reaching up to smooth a piece of hair out of her face and tracing what she could only guess was a nasty bruise with careful fingers and a face full of concern.

 

“Right now I’ll enjoy going to the hospital with you,” he told her, serious, and much as she might want to argue, the distinct blur to the lines of his face made her think that wasn’t necessarily the worst of ideas.

 

“Fine,” she agreed. “Hospital now – rebellion after?”

 

“Yes.” He smiled, leaning forward to kiss her chastely before reaching down and scooping her ever so carefully into his arms. “Rebellion after.”

 


	8. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne Fisher does not get sick, until she does. Teen and Up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one... got away from me.

 

Phryne had never been a particularly maternal type, not in any traditional sense of the word. But Dot had clearly needed a friend and some guidance, Bert and Cec had needed a cause, and Jane needed a home – not to mention someone who wouldn't crush her spirit – and so it had just happened that she had become an accidental matriarch. Mother to a family of misfits, and shockingly content with it.

 

Until the fever struck.

 

Sickness, it turned out, was where her newfound maternal leanings most decidedly ended – no matter how much she might care for her people – and this was exactly what she told Jack as she popped her feet up on his desk.

 

“I need a murder.”

 

“If you're hoping I'll oblige, Miss Fisher, then I'm afraid you have the wrong building,” he levelled, crossing his fingers and resting them on his desk as he stared her down.

 

“You know what I mean, Jack,” she replied. “I can't go home they're all… _sickly_.”

 

“I hear that happens when people are sick,” he deadpanned and she let out an irritated huff of breath.

 

“Don't get smart, Jack, I might be tempted to provide my own murder.”

 

“Are you threatening an officer of the law, Miss Fisher?” he demanded with false incredulity. “I have to say that seems a little extreme – even for your unique standards.”

 

“Jaaack,” she whined in frustration, lowering her feet back to the floor to lean over the desk and stare him down herself. “I'm telling you, I _need_ a murder. Badly.”

 

Jack copied the gesture, meeting her challenging gaze, faces mere inches apart despite the barrier of the desk between them. “And I'm telling you – I don't have one.”

 

She sighed, deflating, and let her head fall to rest on her arms. Jack continued to look at her, a small line appearing between his brows.

 

“What?” she asked, irritated.

 

“Nothing,” he replied quickly, leaning back and shaking his head.

 

“ _What_?” she demanded, lifting her chin again.

 

He cleared his throat. “You… er, well… you're sweating.”

 

She bolted upright, one hand going to her forehead. “No,” she breathed, in direct denial of the moisture she found there.

 

“Phryne,” Jack started, careful. “Are you sure _you're_ not sick?”

 

“No!” she exclaimed, scandalised at the very thought. “I don't get sick, Jack. I avoid sickness wherever possible. Like now,” she added, gesturing to herself where she sat in his chair, decidedly not at Wardlow.

 

Jack's frown merely deepened. “You were a nurse, how can you be squeamish of people who are sick?”

 

Phryne shifted a little in her chair, trying to think how to deflect the question despite the fact that fog seemed to be starting to descend over her brain.

 

“I'm not squeamish,” she replied. “I just don't _like_ them.”

 

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Same question then.”

 

“This is a cyclecar conversation, Jack,” she avoided, “and if you don't have a murder for me then you're no good to me right now.” With that she stood, and the world spun.

 

“Miss Fisher?” Jack asked, concern clear in his tone.

 

“I'm fine,” she snapped. “I just stood too quickly is all. And your office is too hot.”

 

She followed Jack’s gaze as it flickered to the frost covered window and back.

 

“Are you sure you're alright?” he insisted, and she pasted on a smile.

 

“Perfectly, Jack. Let me know if anyone dies, won't you?”

 

He didn't respond, instead just watching her carefully in a way that was somewhat unnerving. She was _fine_.

 

She moved to take a step towards the door and felt herself sway dangerously, pain shooting like a white light behind her eyes. Jack was there in an instant, one hand holding her – firm but respectful – around her back. She blinked in confusion and Jack raised a hand to her forehead.

 

“Miss Fisher, you’re feverish,” Jack told her sternly, but she simply shook her head.

 

“Your office is just too hot, Jack.”

 

“My office is freezing, and you’re sick.”

 

“No,” she protested. “No I _can’t_ be.” She grabbed the arm he had around her, staring up at him as if he had the power to change it, take it back, make it go away.

 

“I’m afraid no one is immune to a virus.” He offered her a sympathetic smile. “Not even the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher.”

 

She pouted, unimpressed. “Well I’m not going home. It’s full of sick people.”

 

Jack just looked at her.

 

“Sick _er_ people.”

 

He turned her, walking them towards his door. “You need bed, Miss Fisher.”

 

“Care to join me?” she shot back on instinct, ignoring the way her own skin was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

 

Jack just smirked. “Right now? Decidedly not.”

 

She blinked. “Right now?”

 

“Go home, you need to rest,” he replied, ignoring the question.

 

“Wait, Jack!” she protested as he started to close the door. “What do you mean ‘right now’?”

 

“Goodbye, Miss Fisher.”

 

She stared at him as he shut the door, gaping at the space where his head had just been. Why _now_? She had been increasing her teasing for weeks, waiting on tenterhooks for him to respond, for him to let his last shreds of restraint go and take her up on her offers. To take her. And now, what, he was saying yes? Just not until she was over this imagined sickness? Fine, then she would just have to brave the chaos of Wardlow until this so-called fever had passed. She turned, ready to leave, but as she did her head spun again, and she reached out a hand to steady herself. Blinding pain flashed through her skull again and she gasped out, breathing heavy.

 

Okay, so maybe she really was sick.

 

She reached forward with the hand she wasn’t using to keep herself upright and knocked. Jack appeared a moment later, mouth open as if ready to say something, though as he looked at her his words seemed to fall away.

 

“Phryne?” he asked, concerned.

 

“I think,” she paused, trying to get her muddled brain in order. “I think I may be sick.”

 

“You don’t say.”

 

She shot him a filthy look, taking a deep breath against the rapidly spreading pain in her temples. “Do you think you could be so kind as to escort me home, Inspector?”

 

He considered her for a moment, confusion mixing with the concern already in his blue eyes.

 

“Of course,” he replied then, as if shaking himself from some deep thought. “Come on.” He reached for her, snaking an arm around her waist to steady her, and she leaned her weight on him gratefully, allowing him to lead her to the car. Her head was well and truly spinning, vision blurred, and she felt she might melt – Jack’s arm comforting but too warm around her. Once she was seated she suddenly found she could barely keep her eyes open, and as the car pulled out it wasn’t long before they fell shut, finally letting herself submit to the fever trying to break in.  

 

.

 

When she woke, she was surprised to find it was to a room that wasn’t hers. One that, in fact, she did not recognise at all. Certainly, she was not at Wardlow. She looked around herself, taking in a little of her surroundings. The room was relatively small and simply furnished, the bed comfortable but nowhere near the luxury of her own. On the far wall stood a bookcase, large and wooden and full to bursting. With sudden but absolute clarity, and an overwhelming sense of comfort – and confusion – she realised exactly where she was.

 

This was Jack’s room.

 

She was in Jack’s room, in Jack’s bed. Though why she had absolutely no idea, since the last thing she remembered clearly was him leading her to his car to take her home. That said, there were other memories, hazier and less well formed but there nonetheless. She remembered Mac, hands on her face, and pressure around her arm. She remembered a hushed conversation and worried voices.

“...can’t stay here, Jack.”

“...in the hospital…”

“...until her fever breaks…”

“...yourself at risk…”

“...better for her?”

“...argue...decided…”

“...fluids and blankets…”

“...worry...take care of her…”

Then there had been movement, lots of movement followed by soft hands and cool pressure on her forehead. There had been words then, too, though only one voice with these, cut apart by pain and unrest and sleep.

“...better… sorry… die… please… love… Phryne… Phryne…”

“Phryne?”

 

She blinked. That voice had not been remembered. It had come from beside her, and she turned her head to see Jack blinking into consciousness, curled in a chair beside the bed.

 

“Jack?” she asked, and found her voice was hoarse.

 

“Phryne, thank god.” He sprung from his chair, one hand going immediately to her forehead, eyes falling closed as he touched her. “Your fever’s broken.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “Barely a fever,” she told him, though her words were raspy, and strangely exhausting to summon.

 

Jack let out a chuckle that held absolutely no humour. “Barely? Phryne, you’ve been asleep for four days.”

 

“I’ve _what_?” she demanded, incredulous, doing her best to push herself upright and failing miserably, her body weak and traitorous.

 

“It’s influenza, there’s been an outbreak all across the city.”

 

Her heart stopped for a moment, fear running through her like ice. “The flu?” she asked, gaining a little strength in her voice. “The others are they… ”

 

“Fine,” he assured her with an understanding smile, “they’re all fine.”

 

She took a shaky, relieved breath. “I should have stayed with them, I shouldn’t have left. Why aren’t I there? Is this your bed?” she asked, a thousand things all occurring to her at once. If they all had flu – and Jack didn’t – then what on earth was she doing in his bed?

 

“I took you home and Mac was there,” he started, she assumed, to explain. “But no one else was, only Jane. She told me she’d sent the others away because Jane had developed a secondary infection.”

 

Phryne felt panic rise in her. He’d already said they were all fine but she knew, she knew how nasty influenza could be. She had been there, right in the thick of it ten years ago – something she never wanted to see again – and she knew intimately how another infection on top nine times out of ten could be fatal. Jack, though, seemed way ahead of her, one hand reaching out and coming to rest, gentle and warm, on top of hers.

 

“Mac is looking after her, and she’s confident she’ll make a full recovery. She’s a child they bounce back. The rest of you, though,” he shrugged, an echo of helplessness passing over him. “Mac said if you stayed in that house it could have been… she said all of you were too vulnerable to be exposed to Jane any longer than necessary. She told me I had to take you away, for your own safety.”

 

Phryne looked at him with confused eyes, still unsure as to how this had landed her in his bed.

 

“Why didn’t you take me to the hospital?” she asked, and he shifted, seeming nervous.

 

“They were overrun, Phryne, it’s been a huge outbreak – and the risks there weren’t much better than if you’d stayed at Wardlow. Hugh and Miss Williams had gone back to their parents’ houses to recover, Bert and Cec were in their own homes as well, I couldn’t… I couldn’t just leave you in the hospital alone.”

 

She blinked, understanding dawning. “So you brought me here and put yourself at risk?”

 

He swallowed thickly, avoiding her eye. “It was the best option for you – Mac agreed.”

 

“What about for you?” she demanded, her outrage substituting in for a little of her missing energy. How could he put his own safety so low? Risk so much when he could have left her in a hospital bed and kept himself far out of harm’s way?

 

Jack didn’t answer, and she used what strength she could find to push herself just a little further up against the pillows, striving for a height she couldn’t reach but feeling more in control just for those inches. “Jack,” she whispered, little energy left for speech, but determined all the same. “You could have made yourself sick you could have… you shouldn’t have done that for me.”

 

He looked back, eyes tortured, and she felt what breath she had left rush out of her.

 

“There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” he said, voice soft and low, “surely you know that by now?”

 

She simply stared, unable to conjure the words she wanted, lips parting slightly in preparation for them but nothing following after. Perhaps it was for the best, she thought, unsure what she even would say in the face of his confession. The way she felt for Jack was a deep and complicated thing she was only just beginning to unravel. And it scared her, more than anything. More than this illness, more than shadows, more than goddamn spiders. The way her heart beat faster whenever his eyes were on her, the way she found herself having to catch her breath every time she saw him, the way his smile made something satisfied deep inside her, the way his hair curled stubbornly out of its pomade every day, the way his eyes glistened in lamplight, the way he held himself, fought constantly for what he believed, joked and sassed and made every room he entered just that little bit better. It all scared the life out of her. Even if she could speak, she hardly knew what to say. He looked away again, hand falling from hers.

 

“I thought you were going to die,” he admitted then, and she thought she felt her heart shatter at the sorrow in him, his gaze remaining fixed on his hands. “I’ve never seen anything like it, never seen anyone so sick, not since… ”

 

“Nineteen eighteen,” she supplied, the words rasping but sure, and he nodded, swallowing again.

 

“I was so scared,” he breathed and finally, Phryne looked at him. Really looked. His dishevelled hair, his rumpled clothes, the scruff on his usually immaculately smooth jawline, the dark circles set deep under his eyes. He was a complete mess, and she suddenly felt she wanted nothing more than to fix that.

 

“You don’t have to be scared anymore, Jack,” she told him, the words just a whisper but burning true just the same. “Look at me.”

 

He didn’t move, hands still wringing and eyes still following them.

 

“Jack, look at me, please.”

 

He looked, and her heart twisted to see moisture hanging at the corners of his blue eyes, making his gaze dark and stormy and broken.

 

“I’m not going anywhere, Jack,” she insisted, injecting what little force she could manage into the statement, and hoping he understood what she was saying. She wasn’t sure if she was ready or not to share her fears with him. To tell him about the depth and passion with which she felt them. She wasn’t sure if she was ready, yet, to open herself like that - but Jack looked like a gentle breeze might break him in two, and she was at a loss, unsure what she could say. “I promise.”

 

Jack shook his head ever so slightly, looking for all the world like he wanted to believe her but the words just wouldn’t stick. She surmised part of that was the man’s sheer state of exhaustion.

 

“When did you last sleep?” she asked then, trying to bring him back to earth. “Properly, not just in that chair.”

 

“What?” he startled, then blinked. “Oh… I… well, you’ve been in my bed and I’ve… I’ve been busy making sure you were still breathing.”

 

“Well I am,” she shot back, voice a little firmer. “Breathing. But I don’t think I’ll be able to get out of your bed any time soon since I can barely sit up.”

 

“Which is what the chair is for,” he told her, words which should have been teasing lacking all of their usual verve and falling flat instead.

 

“Get in the bed, Jack,” she instructed then, without preamble, and watched as his tired eyes looked like they might bulge out of his head.

 

“I –”

 

“Don’t argue,” she interrupted. “You’re exhausted and I’m fine.”

 

“Fine is a stretch when you can barely move,” Jack grumbled, but she shot him a look, determined. She could give Jack nothing else today. She couldn’t give him the completely clean bill of health she feared he would not stop looking haunted until she had, she couldn’t give him the confession that she knew they both wished she could, she couldn’t even give him his whole bed back. But she could give him this, she could give him permission.

 

“Bed, Jack. Now.”

 

“It’s hardly, appropriate, Miss Fisher,” he argued, though it sounded almost as weak as her own disused voice.

 

“I promise not to besmirch your honour, but I can’t go anywhere and you need to sleep. Don’t argue.”

 

He opened his mouth, obviously to argue despite her instruction, but then closed it again at the look she shot him. Slowly, cautiously, he stood, shrugging off his unbuttoned waistcoat and laying it on the chair behind him. She did her very best not to look at him with hunger, thoughts on all the times previously she had imagined watching Jack take off any of his clothes and how never – not for a moment – had she thought the first time seeing him remove layers would go anything like this. She did her best to shift, moving her tired limbs more to the far side of the bed than the middle, then watched as he sat heavily, lying back with relief obvious on his face as his dishevelled hair hit the pillow.

 

She watched him carefully for a second, his body rigid and still as he lay there, then reached out a gradually steadying hand and lay it on his chest. He tensed under the contact, but she spread her fingers, stroking them softly across his shirt.

 

“You can sleep, Jack, it’s alright,” she told him, soft.

 

He turned his head, meeting her concerned gaze. “Promise you won’t disappear?” he asked, voice heavy with exhaustion.

 

“I swear,” she told him. “Just sleep.”

 

With that his eyes shut, and it was only moments until his breathing evened out, chest rising and falling with a calm she knew his waking mind had been so starved of. She sighed as she looked at him, eyes once again roaming his unkempt body.

 

She knew how Jack felt, had known for a while, just as she had known what it was she felt, under all that fear. But for all she knew, for all she suspected, it was now abundantly clear to her that she hadn’t really _understood_. That Jack loved her, she had been quite sure. That he wanted her, she had been certain. That love and lust and want were all a dangerous cocktail when mixed, she had had cruelly proven in the past. And the idea that Jack might feel them all, the idea that she herself felt them all, was terrifying. It was that, truly, that terrified her more than the feelings themselves. The fear of how easily love could destroy.

 

But there was nothing destructive or frightening about the way Jack loved her.

 

She could have died, not with any kind of glory but with a whimper – carried off by a cowardly fever and buried and gone. He could have been taken by it himself, could have been infected and lost his own life in the caring of her. And yet, despite that, he had stayed. He had carried her into his bed – before even allowing her to entice him into hers – and sat, vigilant, at her bedside with no regard for his own safety, no regard for his own heart. He had sat with her until she had awoken and there was not a doubt in her mind that he would have sat with her until she had not, had she been more unlucky. He had sat until his eyes were sunken and his face scruffy, and he had whispered words of comfort that she knew now were hers, his gift to her when he could do nothing else.

 

Even in spite of his own fear, he had done that for her, and that left her nothing short of awestruck. Jack – whose love had once made him run in the face of her mortality – was evidently no longer afraid of it, for all he might fear otherwise. He was afraid for her life, yes, but nothing else. That realisation made her own emotion feel suddenly less terrifying itself – because what reason did she have to be scared of emotion, after all, when it was for someone like Jack? If Jack wasn’t afraid, then she had no reason to be.

 

She watched the rise and fall of his chest with heavy lidded eyes, the temptation of sleep pulling back at her as well as she lay there listening to his breathing. She didn’t know that she was quite ready, still, but suddenly even that felt less of a worry. Jack was beside her, not going anywhere, and for now that was all that mattered.

 

.

 

When she woke again, somehow, it was in her own bed.

 

“Miss Fisher!” someone exclaimed from the doorway and she blinked against the daylight to see it was Dot, and she was not alone.

 

“You’re awake!” Jane exclaimed, and she winced a little against the noise and movement as the girl bounced onto her bed.

 

“You’re… chirpy,” Phryne pointed out. The last she had heard was that Jane was so sick Mac had quarantined Wardlow. You wouldn’t think that, to look at her.

 

“Oh yes,” Jane smiled. “I’m feeling much better. Doctor Mac says I’ve made an excellent recovery.”

 

“I can see that,” Phryne commented, though not without significant relief. “I’m glad you’re feeling so much better.”

 

“Come on, Jane, remember what the Doctor said – we must be gentle with Miss Phryne,” Dot chided gently from the doorway. “Why don’t you go and get her some tea?”

 

Jane acknowledged her with a nod, and another smile in Phryne’s direction, before hopping up again and scurrying from the room. Phryne shot Dot a grateful smile.

 

“They really do bounce back, don’t they?” she said, mildly overwhelmed at the juxtaposition of what she’d heard of her adoptive daughter’s health and what she’d seen.

 

Dot smiled, and Phryne noted she still looked a little pale. “Are you quite well yourself, Dot? Shouldn’t you be in bed still?”

 

“I’ll head back there before too long,” Dot confirmed. “But the Inspector only brought you home last night, and we weren’t sure when you’d wake. We didn’t want you to be alone so we’ve been taking turns.”

 

“We?” Phryne asked, oddly hopeful. It was a strange thing to have gone to sleep with Jack beside her and now to find herself in her own bed alone. Certainly with everything she’d come to realise as she lay there. She wanted to see Jack – soon.

 

“All of us,” Dot replied, somewhat unhelpfully. “Mac, and Jane, and I. The others are still at home – they need their rest too.”

 

“Oh,” Phryne nodded, grateful if confused. “And… where’s Jack?”

 

Dot’s mouth lifted in the corner ever so slightly. “Mac sent him home to rest. He didn’t look so well himself, and she doesn’t want him coming down with the fever too.”

 

Phryne let out a breath somewhere between frustration and relief. She was glad – grateful to Mac for looking out for him in her conscious absence – but at the same time she was annoyed. She had been right there, in Jack’s bed, and it had been intimate and vulnerable in a way she shockingly found she had not hated, despite her unreadiness to make her own confessions. Now, though, the moment was over – and who knew what it would take to get them back there. To get Jack that honest and her that open.

 

She certainly didn’t fancy getting a fever again to make it happen.

 

She lay back against the pillows, sighing, but noting with relief that she felt somewhat more herself. She felt stronger, hopefully not too far from getting out of damned bed finally. As soon as she was, she could talk to Jack, she just had to wait a little while longer.

 

.

 

“Miss Fisher!” Jack blinked in surprise as he opened his door. “You’re –”

 

“Walking! Isn’t it grand?” she replied with a grin and shrug of her shoulder.

 

“Well, I… yes, it’s… I’m glad to see you recovered,” he breathed, a little incredulous.

 

“May I come in?” she asked then when he didn’t speak further, and he shook his head, dazed, and stepped back to allow her over the threshold. She walked past him and turned back, eyes roaming over his figure with scrutiny. He, too, looked better – a fact she was comforted by. His jaw was clean and smooth once more, suit immaculate as always, hair slicked back and neat. It was as if the him that had sat at her bedside and lain beside her exhausted in his bed had never existed – a strange phantom version of him that had existed only in her feverish dreams. She hoped, for what she had to say, that that was not the case.

 

“You took me home,” she stated, once he’d shut the door and turned to look at her, and she watched a frown appear on his brow.

 

He opened his mouth, seeming slightly unsure of himself for a moment before speaking. “I thought you’d be more comfortable in your own bed, and it seemed you had a lot more rest to take but the worst was over. I asked Mac’s advice and she said it was fine to move you I thought… I thought it was what you would want.”

 

He wasn’t wrong – or wouldn’t have been. Her bed was luxurious and comfortable, and she took great solace being in it, but it hadn’t held a patch on a bed that had Jack in it beside her.

 

“It was thoughtful of you, Jack,” she told him, wanting to ease the nervous tension she could see in his jaw. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome,” he said, gaze focused somewhere on the floor behind her. She sighed – this was exactly what she’d feared. They were back to dancing, back to pretending that they weren’t feeling what she knew now with certainty they both were.

 

“And thank you for everything else, as well,” she continued. “You didn’t have to take such good care of me.”

 

Jack shifted and she took a step back towards him.

 

“I know you were frightened.”

 

He looked up, eyes finally meeting hers, and she lost her breath a little at how blue they seemed. Dark, and intense.   


“Phryne, I… ”

 

“You talked to me, when I was asleep,” she said, a statement not a question, and his eyes widened a little. “I heard you.”  


He swallowed, entire body seeming to tense. Like an animal standing in the shadow of its predator, waiting to see if it would strike. “You… you did?”

 

“Yes,” Phryne told him, moving closer still. “I heard you, Jack.”

 

He watched her with nothing short of trepidation as she advanced on his space, but stood his ground nevertheless, not advancing but not stepping away, letting her make the steps.

 

“You didn’t hear me when I told you you had a fever,” he pointed out as she reached touching distance, and she stopped short, indignance blooming in her.

 

“That’s because I don’t get sick… not usually.”

 

“Well you did,” he replied, voice flat and unamused.

 

She softened a little, dropping some of the defensive flair in her demeanour and looking at him somewhat more soberly. “I know.”

 

He took a heavy breath, still watching her carefully.

 

“I'm better now, though,” she told him, and took another step forward, right into his space, until their eyes were almost level and she could feel his breath. “Largely thanks to you.”

 

He swallowed again and she watched the way it made his Adam’s apple bob. Her eyes moved up, across his lips, to meet his gaze.

 

“I can't say it yet, Jack,” she whispered, injecting all the sincerity she could into her voice. “I know you need to hear it, and believe me I want to say it I just… I can't, not right now.”

 

A small crease appeared between his brows, genuine confusion in his expression. “I don't need you to say anything,” he breathed, eyes fierce and honest. “All I need is to know you're alright.”

 

“Well I am. I am alright. And I heard you.”

 

“Alright then.” He gave a small nod of his head, eyes not leaving hers.

 

“Good.” She felt her lips curl into a smile, reluctant to step away from him, though she knew it would be the safest thing.

 

“Good.”

 

Finally, with the agonising control that only Jack Robinson seemed to possess, he stepped backwards, easing the tension between them if only a little. She watched him carefully, the small smirk still playing on her lips.

 

“Did you enjoy seeing me in your bed, Jack?” she asked him and watched him cast his eyes briefly skyward, a familiar exasperated look on his face.

 

“You looked like you might die any minute,” he stated without any amusement, but his voice was no longer broken, expression no longer the one of heartbreak she’d seen when he was at her bedside. “I might have to buy a new bed.”

 

“Or you could just use mine instead,” she suggested, with a casual shrug – as if the idea wasn’t one she had thought of many, _many_ times before.

 

“I thought you weren’t ready,” Jack shot back, and the return of that teasing tone made something unknot deep inside her. He was okay. She was okay. Everything was okay if Jack was back to teasing her, and she Jack.

 

“Only for some things,” she replied, voice low, and she stepped back towards him again. “Others I could be ready for… right now.”

 

“Right now?” he asked, cocking a brow, amusement glinting in the blue of his eyes.

 

“Mhmm,” she murmured, one hand going to his tie, eyes not leaving his for a moment.

 

“That’s odd, because I spoke to Doctor MacMillan not a half hour before you got here, and _she_ said you were still to avoid any kind of strenuous activity.”

 

Phryne felt her face fall. Mac was dead.

 

“She what?”

 

“Mhmm,” Jack hummed with a far too satisfied smile. “In fact she instructed me – were I to see you – that I was to tell you you should really be in bed for at least another day or so.”  
  


She huffed. Even if her best friend was right – which she probably was – that still didn’t make it fair.

 

“Care to join me?” she asked, innocent, a last-ditch attempt – but Jack only smirked.

 

“Not right now.”

 

“That seems to be our motto, Jack,” she replied, unamused, almost a whine. He reached forward, brushing her hair back a small ways.

 

“Maybe,” he agreed. “But the thing about ‘not right now’, Miss Fisher, is it presupposes there will be a later.”

 

He mouth curved up again at the corners. “Is that what you meant when you said it before?” she asked, oddly breathless, transfixed by the way his dark eyes watched her. “Later?”

 

“Yes,” he told her without hesitation. “Is it what you meant?”

 

“Yes,” she breathed instantly. “Definitely.”

 

“Then I suppose we’ll both just have to wait for later.”

 

 

 


	9. Bruises (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack is acting strange, Phryne doesn’t understand why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally forgot to say I was missing Day 9 as I'm combining it with a prompt later on (sorry!), so here is Chapter 9, Day 10, Bruises. Once again thank you everyone so much for reading and indulging me in this whumpfest, I appreciate every single hit, kudos, and comment so very much.

 

“Well,” Jack sighed, as the clock struck half past an hour later than either cared to note, “I best be getting home.”

 

Phryne blinked in surprise, nearly choking on her own whisky.

 

“Home?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

 

“I do have one, you know, even if you insist on keeping me from it,” he levelled back at her, standing and straightening his jacket.

 

“Yes but you go there so infrequently I thought perhaps you might finally be reconsidering your allegiance.” She fluttered her lashes at him, a small and perfectly constructed pout on her lips.

 

He merely looked at her and she sighed, wondering how and when Jack had managed to build such a wonderful defence against her catalogue of expressions. She was going to need to start switching it up or else he’d become totally immune – and then where would she be?

 

“Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked instead, changing tactic as she stood and crossed to him, brushing her fingers across his lapels.

 

“You see me every day,” he replied with an exasperated smile that did nothing to hide the fondness glowing just beneath it.

 

“So that's a yes?” she pressed, staring up through her lashes.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good,” she grinned, and closed the space between them, capturing his mouth with hers and relaxing a little when he leant into the gesture, hand coming to rest on her neck even as he deepened the kiss.

 

“Mmph, Jack,” she mumbled against his lips, the hunger in them a direct contradiction of his apparent determination to head home alone. “Are you sure you want to leave?”

 

He hesitated, and it did not go unmissed.

 

“I should, I have to be at the station early.”

 

“I live closer to the station than you do,” she protested, keeping her arms around his neck to stop him pulling back as she looked at him. “It would be far easier for you to get there if you stay here.”

 

“Except that if I stay here,” he started, giving her the stern glare she so loved to tease him into giving her, “the loss of sleep will negate any of the good done by being closer.”

 

She rolled her eyes and leant in, lips brushing against his. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while, Inspector.”

 

“I don’t doubt it,” he breathed, using her momentary distraction with the feel of his breath hot against her to unhook her arms from around him and step into the hall, grabbing his hat.

 

“Not fair, Jack,” she whined through the open parlour door and he chuckled.

 

“You’ve never played fair, Miss Fisher, why should I?”

 

.

 

Despite his promises, she didn't see him the next day, nor the day after that. He called her, once, explaining how a case was busy taking up all his time and she'd been rather offended that he was keeping her out of it until he explained it that it was an old case, it was simply the trial he was dealing with. That, she didn't mind missing. Trials were notoriously boring.

 

What she found she did mind, however, was his distance. The notion that they saw each other every day was somewhat of an exaggeration, sheer necessity if nothing else making that impossible, but usually their parting was a little fonder. More intimate.

 

Honestly, Phryne was struggling to understand why if he knew he wouldn't see her for several days Jack hadn't allowed her to at least give him something to remember her by. Jack – she had discovered to her absolute delight – was both skilled and enthusiastic in his love making. They had waited for each other for a long time, time they had both tried to make up for with the utmost passion, and she enjoyed the way they usually treated every moment like it might just be the last.

 

Jack never just _left_. Even on nights when injury had prevented strenuous activity, or sheer exhaustion had won out against their ever-burning desire, almost always he still stayed. He still slept in her bed, a warm comforting presence she hadn't expected to enjoy quite so much, he still held her in her sleep and kissed her in the morning. For as much as she didn't need him, could occupy her time perfectly enjoyably in his absence, she still found that she wanted him there more often than not.

 

His leaving may not have been totally unprecedented, given he did still have a home of his own, but it was still decidedly _odd_.

 

Phryne sighed as she swirled her whisky, looking at the clock. It was past ten already and the likelihood was he had already headed back to his again. Another day, another night, Jackless.

 

She was all but ready to turn in herself when the knock came, soft and quiet, but unmistakable. She jumped out of her chair and padded to the front door in her stockinged feet, unable to withhold the smile that bloomed across her face at the sight of Jack standing on her doorstep. She opened her mouth ready to greet him, chide him, _something_ – but she found herself unable to speak as he surged forwards, mouth moving immediately to hers.

 

His kiss was eager, passionate, and she was quite content to let it continue, words seeming wholly unnecessary in the circumstance. She wrapped her fingers around his lapels and pulled him inside, kicking the door shut after her and taking pleasure in the way he pushed her up against it once she'd done so. His mouth moved from hers to bite kisses along her jaw, down her neck – desperate and hungry – and she gasped out at the feel of it.

 

“Jack,” she breathed. “Bedroom, _now_.”

 

He didn't hesitate, twining his fingers with hers and pulling her to the stairs and up after him, leading her into her bedroom and pressing her against the door with singular purpose once it was locked behind them. His fingers found their way to the buttons of her blouse and nimbly unfastened each in quick succession, pulling it down her shoulders and throwing it to the floor. She reached for him in an attempt to replicate his actions, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, but suddenly his own fingers were around her wrists – gentle yet firm – pushing them back and pinning her arms above her against the door. He held them in place with one hand and with the other moved to find the fastening of her skirt, making short work of it as it slid down her body and puddled around her ankles, leaving her in just a slip.

 

She moaned as his mouth moved to her throat, nipping and sucking bruises into the skin there. Ordinarily she’d have chided him for marking her there, so conspicuous and prominent, but she was too distracted with concern at the sheer desperation in his kisses.

 

“Jack?” she asked in a hushed whisper, moaning as his mouth sunk further still, his spare hand brushing across a breast through the silk of her slip and making her shiver. He didn’t respond.

 

“Jack?” she asked again, voice firmer, trying to gather herself. His mouth stilled and he lifted his head, though didn’t look her in the eye. She slipped her hands slowly out of his grip and reached for his face, tilting it up, leaning forward to kiss him. Slower, softer. His hands slipped around her waist, thumbs stroking up her side. She let her hands slide down from his face to his chest again, fingers resuming their work at his buttons.

 

He froze, pulling back from her touch, and she gaped at him.

 

“Jack, _what_ is the matter with you?”

 

“Nothing,” he mumbled, reaching forward for her hand and pulling her back into his chest. “Nothing I just… let me take care of you tonight, won’t you?”

 

She stared up at him, assessing, breathing heavy. It was a tempting offer, of course it was, but Jack took care of her plenty – and something about him seemed off. This didn’t feel like generosity, it felt like a distraction. She felt her brow creasing, stepping out of his arms and fixing him with a stern glare.

 

“Jack, take off your shirt.”

 

He reached for her. “Phryne, please just –”

 

“Take off your shirt, Jack.” She cut him off, and he let his hands drop, sighing. He didn’t move.

 

“I can’t.”

 

Phryne took a careful step back towards him, reaching out with fingers far too steady for their own good. “Will you let me?” she asked, voice soft, looking up at him with concern.

 

He took a shaky breath, avoiding her eyes for a moment before turning to look at her. He gave a single nod.

 

She reached out, fingers slipping each button through its hole one by one, keeping her movements small as if she might scare him off. She had no idea what was waiting underneath, but his reactions were frightening her, and she needed to see, needed to know what was going on before her brain supplied her with far worse alternatives.

 

Once the buttons were all loosened she took a breath and reached up to push the fabric off his shoulders, sliding it down his arms and feeling her mouth fall open. Even with his singlet still on there was no doubt as to what Jack had been trying to hide.

 

His upper arms and shoulders were littered in blotches of red and purple, yellow and green, bruises blossoming out over more skin seemingly than they didn’t. She stared at him for a moment before reaching forwards again and scrambling to untuck the singlet, pulling it up and over his head to expose the rest of him. She cast her eyes over his body, trying and failing to stifle the gasp as she took in the full extent of his injuries.

 

He was covered, bruised all over from collar to waist. Across half his left side his ribs were visible from the way the mottling darkened and lightened over the bones.

 

“Jack,” she breathed. “Oh my god, what happened to you?”

 

She reached out again to touch him, tracing her fingers lightly against the marked flesh.

 

“Nothing,” Jack told her. “You don’t need to worry.”

 

She scoffed. “You’re joking?”

 

He shrugged, leaning down to scoop his shirt back off the floor and pull it on, covering at least some of the damage even unbuttoned.

 

“Jack, you look like you decided to wrestle a ‘roo,” she protested. “What happened to you? Who did this?”

 

“I told you not to worry, Phryne,” he sighed. “Please.”

 

“Too late,” she snapped back, pushing the shirt aside to examine him closer. “I’m worried.”

 

He stepped away, shaking off her touch. “Phryne, don’t, please. Please,” he added in a whisper.

 

She opened her mouth ready to argue back, but something in his face stopped her. Not fear, or pride, not even pain. It was none of that, just pure sorrow, eking out of his very being. Jack seemed _sad_ , sad and exhausted, and for that reason and no other Phryne – for once in her life – let it go. She shut her mouth, nodding instead.

 

“Okay,” she breathed, and stepped forward again, reaching up to cup his face in her hands. “Okay.”

 

Jack kept very little hidden from her, and as much as not knowing was killing her – as much as she wanted to kill whoever was responsible – Jack seemed to be desperate not to share this with her. It hurt, knowing he was keeping something from her deliberately, but evidently it was difficult for him to do so, and that would have to be enough for now.

 

“Thank you,” he murmured, eyes falling shut briefly in gratitude, and she took the opportunity to lean in and kiss him again.

 

“I don’t like it,” she added though, needing to be totally clear.

 

“I know.” His eyes bored into hers, hands moving back to her waist and pulling her closer again. “And I’m sorry, I am.”

 

She took a deep breath. “I don’t want you to be sorry, I want to know who to kill but,” she added before he could interrupt, “since I don’t yet… will you at least let me take care of you?”

 

He shivered beneath her touch, nodding, and she kissed him again, smiling before dropping to her knees and reaching for the fastening of his trousers.

 

“You’ll have to tell me eventually,” she murmured, as she slipped the material down, pressing a kiss just above the waistband of his boxer shorts.

 

“I know.”

 

“But not tonight,” she breathed against his skin, enjoying the obvious reaction her hot breath elicited from him. He looked down at her, blue eyes dark with lust, and she kept her eyes on him as she slipped her fingers beneath the elastic, sliding away the last barrier between her and her goal. She pressed another kiss to the tip of his cock and then moved her head back, nipping her way up his inner thigh and making him groan, carefully inserting just the right amount of teeth to leave a mark.

 

She might not know where his bruises had come from – and he might have been reluctant to tell her, something wrong that she couldn’t quite fathom – but here and now that didn’t have to matter. Now she could give him her own bruises, good bruises, loving bruises. Distract him from his hurt with a better one. He would tell her eventually, she was certain, but in the meantime, she would give him other bruises to think on.

 

And these, she noted with a satisfied smirk into his skin, did not seem to make him sad in the slightest.

 


	10. Hypothermia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It may have been a mistake to stakeout a hunting cabin in the middle of winter. A rather belated Day 11, Hypothermia, with a big helping of Day 9, Stranded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late on my days, and this is a monster, good lord. Yesterday's Electrocution is one of the few I'm forfeiting, and today's "Stay." will be coming later in the month - as will Part 2 of Bruises. For now, please enjoy this accidental 9000 word ramble, and thank you to all once again for stopping by.

 

Everything that could have gone wrong, had gone wrong. Though she still claimed that she wasn’t to blame for all of them.

 

After all, Dot coming down with a cold and Hugh insisting he wouldn’t leave his wife when she was sick was not exactly something she could have predicted. Nor was the snowstorm, and the roads it had left blocked between them and civilisation.

 

“May I remind you this was _your_ idea,” Jack grumbled as he burrowed further under the blanket, eyes accusing where they peaked out from above his scarf.

 

“An idea which _you_ agreed to,” she shot back, pulling her own blanket tighter around her shoulders. Honestly, she didn’t understand why he had to be such a big baby. It was only a little snow – and it wasn’t like they hadn’t been in this situation before. Considering that time they’d been trapped with a psychopath and half her extended family, she really thought this was preferable.

 

Just the two of them, and an abandoned chalet in the woods. It was the stuff her dreams were made of, dreams that involved Jack’s mouth and his fingers and skin and sweat and _warmth_. She had to admit, in the dreams it had all gone somewhat preferably. She could feel her fingers in them, for one.

 

“I’m not sure I would say ‘agreed’, Miss Fisher,” Jack continued. “More ‘was coerced’.”

 

She rolled her eyes, trying to ignore the shiver that wracked through her. “Please, you weren’t coerced into anything, Jack. Don’t try to pretend that you don’t enjoy our stakeouts as much as I do.”

 

“Of course I do, when I’m not freezing to death.”

 

She sighed but didn’t answer. The last thing she wanted was for them to argue, mind preoccupied with what better use they could be making of their mouths.

 

She was just starting to get lost on that thought train again when, from outside, there was a distinctive snap, echoing through the woods like a gunshot in the night, loud and clear.

 

Jack sprung upright but she was faster, placing a hand on his shoulder and picking her gun up from the table. “Why don’t you stay here, Jack, I wouldn’t want you to freeze.”

 

He made a move to protest, opening his mouth but she quieted him. “No, no, I insist,” she continued, reaching down to tuck the blanket around him. “It’s probably only a deer anyway – no reason for you to get cold.”

 

He shot her a look, folding his arms beneath the blanket.

 

“Fine. I’m sure you’re quite capable, Miss Fisher.”

 

She raised a defiant eyebrow, cocking her gun. “Quite,” she snapped, and left, letting the door slam quite deliberately behind her.

 

It _was_ cold outside, she had to admit, wishing she’d stopped at least long enough to put snowshoes on before heading out as her feet immediately sunk into the cold powder. Now her feet were going to get wet. She let out an irritated huff, looking around into the treeline for any sign of a cause to the disturbance but coming up blank. It probably just _had_ been a deer, but she was thankful for the excuse to get up either way.

 

As unfortunate as it proved in terms of manpower, she couldn’t deny she’d been excited when Dot and Hugh hadn’t been able to come. Surely, away from the city and the seemingly never-ending stream of interruptions, she and Jack might finally be able to put all that tension to good use – or so she’d thought. She hadn’t known that by the time they got there the cabin would already have been empty, their suspect long gone. She hadn’t known the snowstorm was going to hit and trap them up there without power. She hadn’t known any of it, and she only wished Jack could be a little more forgiving of that so it didn’t have to be a completely wasted trip.

 

She sighed. Taking a look around the snow-covered forest and wondering with only mild trepidation if the killer they had come to track was in fact as absent as appearances suggested. She almost hoped he wasn’t – at least then Jack would owe her for a job well done. Besides which maybe a good chase would warm him up enough to regain the use of his hands. For now, however, it seemed the only thing about was birds, and the illusive deer, and she huffed in irritation before turning to re-enter the cabin.

 

That’s when it struck her. Well, something struck her – hard, across the back of the head – and the white of the snow was quickly replaced with the black dark of unconsciousness.

 

.

 

As she found her way back into awareness, Phryne’s first thought was that she was absolutely freezing. Her second was supreme annoyance because Jack would no doubt count her discomfort as a win. Her third was simply _Jack_ , and the thought of him made memory come flooding back into her far colder than her shivering body. She had been attacked – someone had knocked her unconscious – and the last thing she remembered was the feel of powdery snow beneath her.

 

Her eyes flew open, not sure quite what she was expecting to see though more than surprised to be greeted by the sight of the cabin, just how she’d left it, Jack included. He was, however, somewhat less conscious than she had left him, and confusion faded quickly back into concern as she noted this. She got to her feet – far too fast for the throbbing in the back of her skull – and winced, but made her way across to him despite the pain. Though at first glance it had almost appeared Jack was sleeping peacefully, further inspection made it clear that whoever had caused the pain in her head had repeated (or perhaps started) their efforts on Jack. His skin was splashed red across the temple with a small stream of blood that appeared to run through his hair, over his ear, and down towards his collar, and she felt her stomach twist in panic at the sight of it. She dropped to her knees in front of his chair, hand flying to his wrist to feel for a pulse and heaving a great sigh of relief as she felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

 

Phryne hadn’t a clue what, exactly, was going on but suddenly their stranded status seemed no longer nearly as appealing. The fantasy of her and Jack and a remote cabin in the woods was long gone, replaced only with growing panic, and the thought that she’d really quite like it if her partner in crime-solving could wake up and panic with her. She stood again, hand going to Jack’s cheek and tapping gently.

 

“Jack?” she asked, no small amount of concern in her voice. “Jack, wake up.”

 

He remained non-responsive and she cursed internally, turning back to look at the room. Nothing seemed changed or disturbed from before, nothing missing or rearranged, though there was something... her eyes fell closed in frustrated realisation. She walked with hurried steps back to her chair, searching through the blankets – though she was sure in vain. Then she crossed back to Jack, searching him too.

 

“Damn,” she breathed as she came up empty.

 

Their guns were gone. Wasn’t that just brilliant?

 

“Jack?” she asked again, firmer this time as she shook him by the shoulder. “Jack, it would be rather useful if you could _wake_ _up_.”

 

Jack stayed stubbornly motionless.

 

“Ugh,” she groaned. Fat lot of good he was.

 

She made her way to the door, thinking to see if it was locked when she stopped short. She had half believed – mind preoccupied with more pressing concerns – that the dark cast of the room was a result of her head injury, or else the candles burning down whilst she had been out cold. It seemed now, however, that there was an altogether more worrying cause. The door was blocked, the glass panelling darkened by what looked to be a thick blanket of snow. And that, Phryne thought, was decidedly not good. Not when the small cabin was designed for hunters rather than polite society and sunlit evenings. Not when the small building was windowless, and that door was their only way out. She made her way back into the room, heading for the draw that had held their candles, worried though not yet certain of what she might find.

 

Her heart sank with what she did.

 

The draw had been ransacked, only one candle left which stared at her mockingly, a single strand of white against the dark wood of the draw. With feet that felt heavy with truth she already knew, she made her way to the small kitchen, unsurprised to find it too had been laid bare.

 

They were stranded. Totally cut off, with nothing – no food, no electricity, no warmth. No escape. Even Phryne had to admit that, for all the awkward and dangerous positions she had found herself in, these were not the strongest of odds. Worse, though, was the fact that Jack was still unconscious, no sign in him that he might be inclined to rise anytime soon.

 

That made things a little more complicated.

 

She returned to the main room, casting her eyes over him once more, gaze narrowed and assessing. The wound itself had not seemed deep, though it had evidently bled like the devil, and the fact he was still out from the force of it did nothing to quell the fear in her stomach. The sight of blood against his skin pulled at her, and she filled with the sudden desperate urge to remove it. Determined, she made her way to the bathroom, taking a cloth and wetting it. The water was icy, and the thought that the pipes might not be far from frozen added itself to her mental list of worries. She ignored it though, deciding resolutely to panic on one thing at a time only.

 

Phryne made her way back to Jack’s chair, crouching beside him and reaching out to start tending the wound. With gentle strokes she started to clean the blood away, wiping with careful confidence to reveal the injury below. To her relief, clean of the blood, it seemed far less drastic. There was a well-formed lump beneath his soft hair – and Jack would no doubt have a headache to match her own and then some when he eventually woke – but the cut was superficial, long but shallow enough it was unlikely to cause him any further problems. Certainly not enough to be a danger to him, and the reassurance of that knowledge was like a palpable thing.

 

Jack would be fine, and he would wake up – this she could be sure of – all she had to do was wait.

 

.

 

One hundred and thirty-one long minutes later, Jack stirred, and Phryne stirred with him. She had spent at least half that time examining every inch of their odd prison, looking for anything that could lend itself to an escape plan. When she had come up empty there she had changed tactic to things they could burn. Thankfully, there at least she had been successful, until she had realised that the cabin bizarrely had no working fireplace, and that to burn anything for warmth then would only lead to choking them both on smoke.

 

Personally, she’d rather freeze. Which she had been, slowly, as the minutes ticked by. She’d done her best to stay active, pacing up and down the small space with nothing better to do, and no ideas left to free them, but she was tiring – her head still aching from its assault and her mind weary from all her worrying. Eventually she had had to sit, curling herself under the blanket in her chair and fixing her eyes on Jack’s still figure, waiting. Perhaps it would be better if he never did wake, she’d thought briefly, if their fate was indeed to freeze to death in this place then surely it would be better that he weren’t conscious for it. If she could go back to her blissful state of unawareness she would. Selfishly, though, she wanted him to – the only thing worse than the ever encroaching cold the deafening and lonely silence of the dark as she waited for him to return to her.

 

If this truly was the end, she found with painful truth she did not want to face it alone. Not with him right there, a mere couple of steps away, separated from her only by the cruel joke of his unconsciousness. It was that had eventually made her move, crossing the few paces to him and settling herself at his feet, head against his thigh and his watch, already removed as she had settled into her long wait, clasped tight between her fingers. There she had waited, pain in her temples and worry in her heart, drifting in and out of awareness herself until she felt his leg move beneath her.

 

Jack groaned against the wakefulness and she turned her head far too fast at the sound of it, groaning herself as the sudden movement aggravated her aching skull.

 

“Jack?” she breathed, disbelieving.

 

She had almost believed that he wouldn’t wake, that she was doomed to freeze her way into oblivion with nothing but the sound of his breathing for company, and she could have cried with the relief that flooded her at his raspy and confused, “Miss Fisher?”

 

She scrambled upright, ignoring how her frozen limbs protested, and turned to look in his eyes. “Jack, you’re awake,” she stated, the words useless save for the fact she needed to hear them.

 

He blinked at her. “What happened?” he asked, one had going to rub what she was sure would now be the highly painful lump under his hair. She watched as his fingers investigated the wound, eyes confused for a moment until they widened, memory presumably coming back to him.

 

“Phryne!” he exclaimed, panicked, and he jumped from his chair to face her. “The killer, he’s still here. We have to go after him!”

 

Phryne just smiled at him with sympathy. Oh, if only he knew.

 

“I’m afraid it’s a little too late for that,” she told him, keeping her voice soft as she could, hands moving to hold his upper arms, keeping him in place before he tore off in a search he could never complete. Jack stopped abruptly, her frozen fingers freezing him in place.

 

“What?” he asked, and seemed to notice the way it his word was visible, a cloud of condensation in the air between them. He looked around, taking in the darkened room, the discarded blanket in his chair, the rumpled one where his feet had been. He looked back to Phryne, a deep crease between his brows. “Phryne, what’s going on?”

 

She took a shaky breath of her own, watching the mist of it dance in the air. “We’re trapped, Jack,” she told him without preamble. “Stranded. He must have still been here when we arrived. My guess is we startled him and he waited for the opportunity of us separating to take us out. He’s blocked us in, Jack. There’s snow against the door, it won’t budge.”

 

Jack drunk in her words with unfettered terror, the truth settling over his eyes even has his body tightened beneath her with something that felt oddly like resolve. She was right in that, it appeared, when he stepped back from her grasp, looking around again.

 

“No,” he muttered, examining the walls around them as if some secret might be held in the paintwork. “There has to be some way out, surely?”

 

She shook her head, more weary than anything else. She’d had two hours more to hope than him, after all. “There isn’t, Jack, I’ve searched. You’ve been unconscious a long time.”

 

He turned to look back at her, eyes finally seeing rather than just looking, and he paused again. “How long was I out?” he asked, and she sighed.

 

“I don’t know, not for certain, but a good two hours longer than I was.”

 

“Two hours?” he demanded, shock temporarily erasing the deep lines of concern in his brow. “What have you… what did you do?”

 

“What you were just doing,” she replied, folding her arms across herself to disguise the shiver that ran through her. She really was beginning to get _very_ cold. “I looked for a way out, I tried to think of a solution, tried to come with one of those wonderfully cunning plans of mine but there’s _nothing_ , Jack. We’ve no food, no electricity. We’ve no way to get out or contact anyone. Our guns are gone. All that’s left is blankets and a single candle.”

 

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t used that already?” He gave her an appraising look. “You look cold.”

 

She let out a slightly humourless chuckle, trying and failing to suppress the juddering chill that shook her. “I am.”

 

“Why didn’t you burn it, then?” he asked, confused.

 

“I was waiting for you.”

 

His mouth fell open, expression finally softening of the panic and an odd calm descending on his face. He stood straight, looking at her across the small space. “Right. So, this is… it’s serious, then?”

 

“I’m afraid so,” she breathed, meeting his gaze with simple honesty in her own. There was no point dressing it up, they were out of options. Not yet out of time, because freezing was a slow and awful death that you could bat away bit by bit but without reprieve would eventually beat you down into oblivion. Their only hope was that their prolonged absence would cause enough concern to have someone come and look for them – though with the roads the way they were she wasn’t sure anyone would be able to get to them even though they knew where to look.

 

They were alone. Just as she had wanted and nothing like it at all. The irony almost made her laugh. The ways in which she had fantasised about her and Jack and empty darkened rooms – and now here they were and it was so very far from how she’d ever pictured it. She did laugh, the sound bubbling out of her somewhere between amused and hysterical, and the frown reappeared on Jack’s face.

 

“Phryne?” he asked gently, and she laughed again. She loved when he used her given name, the harmony of his deep voice saying it and her ears hearing it like a song she never wanted to stop hearing, and yet it only ever came out when the situation was serious. Now, she supposed, it only ever would. She would never hear it hummed causally in greeting, or batted at her softly mid-sentence for no reason other than that he felt he could. They would never, now, have the time for him to use her name in all the ways she wanted him to, for them to continue to learn each other the way they had been so enjoyably for so long. They wouldn’t have time for any of it.

 

One thing, though, there was still time for – and with a sudden and complete resolve she looked up, locking her gaze with Jack’s, the laughter dying in her chest as their eyes met, and she spoke. “Jack, will you kiss me?”

 

Jack went slack-jawed, blinking in shock.

 

“I… what?”

 

“Kiss me,” she repeated, plain and simple, no great inflection on the words other than the conviction behind them. “We’re going to die, Jack,” she continued, the idea still not quite settled in her own mind but the words true all the same. “Save for some miracle. We’re going to die and we’re never going to get to finish this, and there’s nothing we can do to change that – but right now you can kiss me.”  


Jack stood stunned for a moment, then he took three swift paces and his hand was at her neck, mouth on hers. She moaned into his kiss, eyes fluttering shut and hands moving to his waist. His mouth was soft and pliant, gentle though there was hunger in it. Kissing Jack, like it had the first time it had happened, was almost surprising in how right it felt. He kissed with just the right amount of passion, but none of the greed that so many of her lovers had. Kissing Jack felt safe, and warm, and it aroused her in deep sort of way that she wasn’t familiar with but she loved all the same. He pulled her close, his other arm around her and the warmth of him against her made another shiver run through her body. He pulled back a little, concern swimming in his dark eyes.

 

“You’re shivering.”

 

“Unfortunately that’s now the state of things,” she shot back, leaning forward again with the intention of resuming the kiss. She hadn’t been ready to stop, Jack’s mouth felt so good on her she wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready.

 

“Collins and Miss Williams know where we’ve gone,” he told her, resolve in his voice. “There’s still a chance.”

 

“A small one,” she countered, impatiently snatching another kiss from him. “I don’t plan to waste time waiting for a rescue, Jack, if this is all the time we have left.”

 

“I’m not suggesting we waste it,” Jack replied, and she arched an eyebrow at him. “You’re shivering, Miss Fisher, I’m just considering how best to warm you up.”

 

A grin spread across her face, eyes glittering. “I hear skin contact is the only true way,” she purred, eyes never leaving his, and he smirked back.

 

“Well far be it for me to rob you of your best chance of survival,” he told her, voice so low his words were barely above a whisper, and she took one of his hands in hers, pressing a kiss to his rapidly cooling fingers before guiding it to the fastenings of her top.

 

“Warm me up, Jack,” she whispered, eyes on his and his hands went to work, not needing to be asked twice. He leant down again, capturing her lips with his own once more as his fingers moved, quick and nimble, unlacing, untying, freeing her from the layers she’d been wrapped in – an ultimately useless defence against the oncoming cold. He pulled material from her piece by piece, until finally he slipped silk over her shoulders and she shivered as the frigid air of the room hit her bare skin. Jack didn’t miss it, and he leant forward to press a kiss to the cold flesh, his lips burning her like fire and making arousal coil deep and desperately in the pit of her stomach. His mouth continued after his hands, pressing a trail of kisses across her skin as he exposed it, hands an equally hot pressure against her as his thumbs ghosted against her ribs.

 

“You know,” she gasped, as he kissed his way around and past her left breast with the utmost reverence, moving his mouth down her sternum and rising again, back to her neck and nipping at the skin there, adding little jolts of pleasure to the trembles of cold. “It only works when both people have their skin exposed.”

 

Jack moved his mouth up yet again, kissing around the shell of her ear, deep voice rumbling into her hair. “Nothing’s stopping you.”

 

She couldn’t help but smile at the words, hands moving with eagerness to the hem of his woollen jumper, ripping it from him with singularity of purpose. Her fingers moved swiftly to the buttons of his shirt, but she cursed when she found the fastenings too fiddly for her stiff and frozen fingers.

 

“Damn,” she cursed, trying and failing to make the stubborn digits perform this one task – the most important task she would ever need them to perform again and yet they were failing her. She groaned in annoyance and he chuckled. The sound both irritated and inspired her, and with stubborn determination she hooked her fingers beneath the material and ripped, a smirk of smug satisfaction pulling at her lips as Jack’s eyes widened at the movement. “What?” she asked with innocence. “It’s not like you’re ever going to need it again.”

 

He laughed, as did she, and then they stopped, staring at each other, reality invading to hang over them with a grim sort of solemnity.

 

“Phryne… ” Jack murmured but she shushed him, a finger covering his lips.

 

“Don’t,” she breathed. “Please don’t.”

 

There were things that should be said. Things that needed to be said, both by him and by her, if this was going to be their last chance, but not yet. She wasn’t ready. Right now all she needed was the warmth of Jack’s mouth to light a fire against her frozen skin. Right now she just wanted to feel him, be with him, one first and final time.

 

Or a few… depending how long the hypothermia actually took to set in.

 

Either way, she needed this first. The rest could come after. Jack just nodded wordlessly, understanding and respectful as he ever was, and she stepped back closer to him, removing the ripped shirt from his trousers and helping him pull his arms out before casting it across the floor. Jack stepped back for only a moment to retrieve the blanket she had curled in at his feet and lay it out beneath them. Trust him to be a gentleman, even at the end. She smiled and pulled him back to her, fingers winding their way into his hair in a desperate bid both for warmth and just to feel him, as much of him as possible before she was out of time.

 

Jack’s hands moved back to their original task of undressing, unfastening her trousers and pulling them and lingerie both, kneeling before her and kissing down the outside of her thigh just as he had her chest, his mouth warm against her. She trembled in the cold, his mouth wonderful against her and not enough all at once, and she whimpered as his mouth made its way back up again, pausing at her inner thigh. He pulled back and she almost groaned in annoyance, desperate, but he simply pulled her hands gently, bringing her down to face him and kissing her again softly before pressing her back into the blanket with a gentle hand on her shoulder. The soft fur was luxurious against her skin, and instantly she felt warmer for it, and thankful to have something other than the cold air against her. Jack mouthed his way back down her body, and this time he didn’t hesitate, kissing his way through soft curls until his mouth was finally where she wanted it.

 

After that, they didn’t speak, and Phryne thought of nothing. Nothing besides his mouth and his tongue and his fingers between her legs, nothing besides the feel of his thumb brushing across her nipple and causing a shiver unrelated to the cold, nothing but the feel of his hungry mouth on hers as he entered her, the feel of knowing how it felt to have Jack inside her after so long of wondering and wishing and fantasising. Phryne thought of nothing but the way it felt to have their bodies finally joined, the heat it made between them, the sweat that juxtaposed the cool fog their breath still made in the air around them as their breathing grew heavy and their eyes dark. She thought of nothing but the way their bodies moved together, Jack’s warmth like an all-encompassing thing, hands a gentle, reverent weight against her skin even as his pace quickened, changing their angle and pushing deeper until she could bear it no longer. She came first, his name a stuttered whimper as her nails scrambled for purchase on his slickened skin, and he followed not long after, biting her name into the flesh of her neck, breathing ragged but grip sure.

 

He held her as they both came down, but still neither of them spoke. Jack pulled her tight against his chest, wrapping the blanket around them and she couldn’t help but revel in the warmth, all too aware that once the adrenalin faded and their heart rates began to slow again the sweat between them would only start to chill, a precursor to the fate they had conveniently avoided for a little while. Still, she did not want to think on it, her mind still giddy with finally knowing how it felt to have Jack Robinson. She pressed a kiss into his chest, and burrowed closer, laying her head against him so that she could hear his heartbeat. She hoped, selfishly, that the cold would take her first, that she could lay here listening to the steady knowledge that Jack was still alive beneath her until it was of no matter to her anymore. That way she could pretend that somehow he would live, and it wasn’t the both of them who were doomed to this fate.

 

They lay together for long minutes, the warmth fading from them little by little until finally Phryne’s body trembled against Jack’s chest and he breathed a terrified sigh into her hair. “Phryne?” he asked, concern thick in his voice, and she closed her eyes, wishing the truth away from her.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

He chuckled, humourless, and pressed a kiss into the top of her head.

 

“Is it time to light the candle, do you think?” he murmured, and she hesitated. It felt final, lighting that, which is exactly why she knew he was asking. To light the candle would be to accept the end was coming, the last light signifying the last hope remaining to them. Still, was there really any point delaying the inevitable? With that thought in mind, she nodded, only to groan as Jack withdrew from her and the removal of his warmth filled her with a cold that proved more than physical. She watched him carefully as he pulled the candle from the draw, placing it into the stick and striking a match that bathed the room in a soft orange glow. He brought the lit candle back to her, placing it a careful enough distance away that they weren’t in danger of knocking it over, but not so far that they lost its warmth. Then he snagged the other blanker and buried himself back in her arms, pulling the second blanket around them and holding her close once more.

 

Phryne sighed, oddly contented. It was so easy to forget, in candlelight with Jack’s arms around her, it was so easy to not think on what was coming for them, and for a while she did. She moved her mouth back to his and kissed him languidly, enjoying the feel of his mouth, the press of his skin, still hot, against the length of her body. She hooked a hand around his and pulled it down, wanting more, wanting to make as much use of the time left as possible. Jack seemed both to understand and agree, his fingers snaking downwards between still damp thighs, and stroking with skilled surety.

 

Their minutes were ticking slowly down but, Phryne thought, as her legs fell further open and her eyes fluttered closed, if nothing else they were minutes they had together.

 

.

 

Eventually, not even the hot press of their bodies could keep them warm, and Phryne grit her teeth against the trembles that had been making her almost vibrate for several long minutes now. Jack’s hands stroked down her back, doing what little he could to soothe her despite his own shaking fingers.

 

“Jack?” she breathed, the word more condensation than volume, and he hummed his response. “The candle.”

 

“What?” he whispered, and she stared over his shoulder with fear.

 

“The candle’s out, Jack.”

 

His head whipped around, far faster than it had any right to, and when he turned back her heart sunk at the resignation in his eyes. So, this was it then, the beginning of the end.

 

“Guess it’s time for all those important confessions,” she joked, though it fell somewhat flat, and she met Jack’s eye to see abject sincerity sitting there.

 

“Do you need one?” he asked. “Because if a confession is what you want, Phryne...”

 

She stared at him as he trailed off, breathless from more than just the chill, and weighed her options. If they were to die, which logic suggested they most assuredly would now far sooner rather than later, then she thought she might quite like to hear it before she did, to know without any room left for doubt that Jack was hers beyond question. Still though, to hear him confess, to perhaps make a confession of her own? That was final beyond anything else, beyond their coupling or the silent death of their lonely candle. She had made her peace with their fate – accepted it enough to have what she wanted and make sure if they died it could be without regrets at opportunities missed (though if anything, the reality of Jack Robinson between her legs had done nothing but remind her _of_ all those opportunities missed, wonderful as it had been). She had been determined that they would say the things that needed saying before the inevitable happened. She found, though, that now – so much closer to staring down the face of oblivion – she decidedly did not want to. She had had Jack and enjoyed it perhaps even more than she had hoped, but she did not want to follow it with a confession and then go sweetly into the night with his arms around her.

 

This wasn’t one of his beloved Shakespeare plays.

 

She wanted to have Jack again, and again, every day for a long time not just this once and then death. She wanted to continue their lives of solving crime and drinking whisky and flirting in the most inappropriate of places and times. She wanted to tell Jack how she loved him like she’d sworn she’d never love a man but that it no longer scared her, because Jack was not like most men and no part of her love for him or his love for her made her feel like she could no longer be free. She wanted to tell him that she would happily solve crime with him the rest of their lives, not the most conventional relationship, and heaven forbid a marriage, but a bond that they knew the depth and strength of that would keep them merrily tethered until they died – later, much later – old and happy and fulfilled. She wanted to tell him all of that but she suddenly found she did _not_ want to tell him now, not in this place, not a slim source of comfort against the terror they were both facing – as if acknowledging the opportunity for a future they were losing made it somehow easier to die. This was not the time and now – despite the chill that lay so deep in her bones she was barely sure she remembered quite how to move – she found herself determined it should not have to be.

 

“No,” she breathed finally in response. “No, I don’t need one, Jack, because this isn’t the time.”

 

He frowned at her, confused without the knowledge of her own epiphany. With monumental effort, Phryne pushed herself upright, frozen limbs protesting but sheer damn stubbornness tiding her through.

 

“No, Jack, I refuse for this to be how it goes.”

 

“Phryne, I….”

 

“ _No_ ,” she repeated. “Get up, Jack, get dressed. We’re getting out.”

Jack gaped at her. “But you’re the one who said…”

 

“I know what I said,” she snapped back, not angry, just firm. “But I wasn’t so cold then, and it wasn’t so real, and I find now it’s coming there is nothing I want less than to lay here and die, as wonderful as your arms may be, Jack.”

 

“Well nor do I,” Jack argued, pushing himself to sit up with seeming as much effort as she knew it had taken her. His skin was almost colourless, lips blue, and she wondered if she looked just as frighteningly corpse-like herself. “But what can we do, what options do we have left?”

 

“I don’t know,” she shot back, a slight whine to her voice. “I don’t know, Jack, but please. I can’t die like this, there has to be something.” She noticed with vague horror that her teeth chattered as she spoke, her entire body still shaking, and Jack reached out an equally trembling hand, resting it on her arm, a small smile playing on his lips. “What?” she demanded at the sight of it.

 

He shook his head, the smile widening. “Nothing, except only the Honourable Phryne Fisher could decide to out-stubborn certain death.”

 

She huffed, the indignance lost somewhat in her shivers but the intent just the same. “It’s not certain until we’re dead.”

 

“You seemed pretty certain when you wanted me to take my clothes off,” Jack pointed out, the smile going nowhere.

 

“Yes, well,” Phryne looked around for her long since discarded clothes, spying her trousers across a chair and forcing herself with monumental effort to her feet. “I never said I wasn’t fickle. Now get dressed, Jack. Quickly.”

 

He sighed, but obeyed, his movements as slow and seemingly difficult as her own. She watched with a slight smugness as he picked up and then quickly cast aside his torn shirt, guilty for the lack of a layer it left him with but content with the memory of his face when she’d done it. Dressing proved far more difficult than she had imagined, considering both their absolute loss of any level of dexterity even close enough to fasten buttons, and she was left in the somewhat ridiculous state of having four layers of clothing all on, but hanging open at the front. It was only Jack’s jumper that saved him the same indignity.

 

“What now?” Jack asked, shivering and sceptical. “We freeze to death in a slightly less compromising position?”

 

“Quiet,” she shushed him, though he had a point. She had been so focused on her renewed determination to just _live, dammit_ , that she hadn’t thought any further forward than that. The facts still remained the same, they were still stranded and the only difference to now and several hours ago was that the both of them had almost completely lost the use of their fingers, not to mention everything else. She perched herself on an armchair and shook, desperately trying to think. It was little use though, her brain could think of little other than how blasted cold she was, and she had to keep blinking against the sudden urge for her eyes to fall shut.

 

“Phryne?” she heard Jack ask and there was terror thinly veiled in it.

 

She found she couldn’t respond, jerking herself back and forth between sleep and wakefulness. She heard his step as he crossed the room to her, crouching in front of her and taking her hands.

 

“Phryne, are you there, are you with me?”

 

“Mmm,” she murmured, trying and failing to yank her eyes open.

 

“Phryne, no, no, stay with me. We’re getting out, remember?” His voice was thick with fear, and she frowned at it, not liking how it sounded mixed with the beautiful richness of his baritone.

 

“I’m here,” she murmured, eyes fluttering open again. She was suddenly just so tired, she didn’t understand.

 

“You’ve stopped shivering,” he noted, and his words were almost inaudible, something in them that she could not decipher. The next thing she knew he had gathered her back into his arms.

 

“Jack,” she protested. “We need to find a way out.”

 

Jack didn’t answer and she felt her brow furrow in confusion as liquid fire touched the bare skin of her chest. She cracked her eyes open enough to stare down at it, puzzled to see the warmth was clear and shiny like water, not fire. She didn’t understand where it had come from until she looked up, shocked to see moisture in the corner of Jack’s eyes. She reached up with achingly stiff fingers to touch the warm liquid gathered there, frown deepening.

 

“Jack, why are you crying?” she whispered, each word seeming oddly exhausting.

 

“I’m not,” he told her, sniffing against his obvious lie. She went to scold him, though couldn’t seem to find the words, instead just burrowing into what warmth remained in his chest. They needed a plan, she reminded herself, trying to shake away the numb feeling wrapping itself around her in icy tendrils.

 

“We’ll find a way,” she said, words mumbled and quiet, and Jack held her tighter. She felt another drop of wetness against her and frowned. “Stop crying, Jack, we’ll be home before you know it.”

 

He coughed, choking down the wetness, and she felt him nod above her. “You’re absolutely right, Miss Fisher,” he replied.

 

“‘Course I am,” she sighed. “I told you it’s not time, no confessions yet.”

 

“No,” Jack agreed then, voice low and she revelled in the way she could feel it rumbling through his chest where she was pressed against him. Rapidly, she was losing the notion of feeling, beginning to forget parts of her body were even there, and she focused on that instead, the vibration of Jack’s voice against her, holding onto those last sensations. His voice, and his arms around her. “No confessions.”

 

.

 

There was very little she remembered after that. There was the feeling of safety, of the absolute surety and comfort of having Jack with her. There was the all-encompassing cold which claimed her like an ocean, dragging her into an oblivion she no longer had the strength to resist. There was a sudden, brief moment of anger as realisation set in, anger at her own false hope and anger at being proved wrong and anger at everything she saw slipping away from her.

 

After that though, there was only the dark and, strangely, Jack’s voice. It rang in her ears, a mantra repeated over and over again – strange only for the fact she had no recollection of ever hearing those words from him. Words like ‘safe’, and ‘home’, and ‘ _please_ ’ all jumbled together like a prayer whispered into skin she could no longer feel. She listened, wishing she could hear more but grateful that the words remained with her when it seemed everything else was lost, nothing of her left but the cold, her mind a looping cycle of black nihility and white snow. She held onto the sound of him, letting it anchor her, fill her with peace she didn’t know how else to find. And she drifted like that for what felt an eternity, unsure where she was or what came next or if, in fact, anything came next at all. She wondered on confessions, on words unspoken, things undone, and she grieved for them, wishing that her Inspector could have been right, and that she could have out-stubborned Death after all. Wishing for time they had wasted and time they had lost.

 

She wished, harder than she had wished for anything before, not a prayer just a determination of will and sheer obstinacy in the face of the dark that tried to claim her. She wished, with everything she had.

 

Then she woke up.

 

.

 

 

“I’m not going to say I told you so,” his voice came from somewhere in the distance, there but not quite fully formed, “but it _was_ your idea.”

 

She wasn’t sure who he was talking to, but the conversation seemed familiar somehow.

 

“Mac tells me you could go either way, but I think she’s telling us all that so we don’t get our hopes up. I know you’re coming back, Phryne, you’re too damn stubborn not to.”

 

And it was strange, her name, batted into the conversation casually – because he felt he could – strange and wonderful. Something she hadn’t been sure she’d ever hear.

 

“I need you to,” he murmured, the words quieter and sadder than his last. “I have confessions still to make, and I can’t do that without your permission.”

 

Phryne sighed, lips curling at his words.

 

“Permission granted,” she whispered, the words a little breathy but determined all the same. Beside her, she felt Jack move, springing to her side and grasping her hand in his.

 

“Phryne?”

 

“Mmm,” she hummed. “Say that again.”

 

Her eyes flickered open just in time to see a line appear between brows that sat above to wide eyes.

 

“What, Phryne?” he inquired, and she smiled wider, watching him intently.

 

“Yes,” she agreed, and settled back against her pillows, gloriously warm for what felt to be the first time in her life, though she knew that to be an exaggeration. “Now tell me what you were going to say,” she demanded. She had waited so long, too long, she didn’t want to wait a moment longer – not when it seemed that he didn’t either. She had questions – several – about where they were and how they’d escaped and whether their would-be killer had even been found. She had questions about the case and their survival that she would need answered before too long, but presently she had one thing at the forefront of her mind.

 

“What?” he asked, with feigned innocence, and she rolled her tired eyes. Still, they were both too stubborn for their own good.

 

“Confessions, Jack,” she pushed gently, and watched as the crease in his brow deepened.

 

“I thought you said it wasn’t time.”

 

“That’s when I didn’t want to think I was dying,” she countered, and he regarded her with a careful expression, lip quirking slightly in the corner.

 

“You don’t seem to be dying now,” he argued.

 

“All the more reason to tell me, Jack,” she shot back with a wealth of sincerity beneath her joking that she saw from his face that he heard. “We’ve got time.”

 

“Very well,” he said, clearing his throat, and then laid his heart bare. As she’d suspected, she didn’t need to hear it, everything he said something she knew or had guessed at for a long time. She didn’t need it, but it filled her with a kind of warmth she thought no cold would ever touch to hear his confessions all the same, and when he was done she smiled up at him.

 

“Jack?” she asked, and he nodded, eyes fixed on hers almost afraid – as if he were somehow still unsure what her reaction might be. “Will you kiss me?”

 

He seemed stunned for a moment, but this time did not need telling twice, leaning forward to capture her mouth in a kiss far softer and sweeter than any they had shared in the cabin.

 

“I have a confession, too,” she breathed against his mouth, and he pulled back a little, eyebrow raised in question. “It was my idea to stakeout the cabin.”

 

Jack rolled his eyes, sitting back in his chair. “That’s not a confession, that’s a statement of fact.”

 

“It’s an admission of culpability,” Phryne countered. “Take it or leave it they don’t come out of my mouth very often.”

 

He smirked, pulling her hand to his mouth and kissing the fingers. “Then I suppose I’ll take it… as well as your being alive.”

 

“Yes,” she mused, “about that. How on Earth did you get us out of there?”

 

Jack’s face blanched. “That’s, erm,” he cleared his throat. “Well that’s another confession I ought to make, actually.”

 

“Oh?” Phryne regarded him with piqued interest, the colour returning after his initial reaction, and not stopping until he was blushing.

 

“I didn’t know what else to do, I just wanted to keep you alive as long as possible…”

 

Phryne’s mind took a brief second to understand his embarrassment, and then laughed, only causing the colour in his cheeks to darken. “You undressed me again? Inspector Robinson, I’m both impressed and scandalised by your initiative.”

“Only your shirt,” he protested weakly, looking ashamed, “and I never would have had we not… had you… I just wanted to keep you alive.” She watched the torture on his face and her smile faded, reaching out for his hand and bringing it back to her.

 

“Evidently it worked,” she told him, with as much reassurance in her tone as she could muster. Jack should not be sorry for saving her, not ever, but certainly not when she had already given him such explicit permission to touch her. Perhaps it was time for her own confessions after all.

 

“It was not altogether dignified for either of us when Collins found us,” he replied, still sounding uncomfortable. “The only saving grace was that Miss Williams was still outside.”

 

She made a face at that. She had no issue with people seeing her skin, had always been open about it, but the thought of poor sweet Dot on a desperate mission to rescue her mistress only to find her wrapped, half exposed, in the arms of the Detective Inspector might have been the limit for her good Catholic soul, and Phryne would never want the poor girl uncomfortable like that.

 

“You’re right it’s good that Dot didn’t see it, but it can’t have done Hugh any harm, Jack… the boy has some learning to do still.”

 

Jack shuddered at the thought, the idea of what exactly his Constable had and hadn’t to learn seemingly not something he wanted to dwell on, and she smirked at his reaction. Then she sobered again, pushing herself up a little on the pillows. She had things she needed to say, because guilt was still sitting in Jack’s expressions. Like he’d somehow crossed a line by saving her life.

 

“Jack,” she started, catching his attention so their eyes met. “You don’t need to apologise for saving my life. Ever.”

 

“No,” he hummed in agreement. “Perhaps not, but I’d rather be apologetic than presumptive.”

 

She smiled, tightening her grip on his hand. This wonderful, wonderful man. How had she ever found him? “Then let me assure you, when it comes to you, Jack, there’s vanishingly little I don’t trust you with. Maybe nothing. So please don’t ever be afraid to save my life, or touch me… definitely don’t be afraid to do that.”

 

His eyes stayed fixed on hers, searching for some lie that didn’t exist and coming up instead in wonderment when he couldn’t find it. It was a little overwhelming for her, too, to hand permission to herself over so freely like that. She had spent so long afraid of how men might touch her, and longer still in perfect, tight control over it. Jack, though, she knew would never take more than she would willingly give in the first place. Jack was not greedy or possessive or cruel, he was careful, and passionate yet controlled. Jack was safe, but not in the kind of way that bored, in the kind of way that invigorated. She felt that with Jack, she could do anything, as much or more even than she could do alone. And she told him this, fingers still twined with his, heart in her eyes.

 

He kissed her when she was done talking, long and deep and slow, and she sighed against it, content. She thought on how she’d expected their trip to the forest to go, how differently it had gone, and couldn’t help but suppress a soft snort of laughter.

 

Jack eyed her with a question on his lips, and she opened her mouth to answer.

 

“I wanted to seduce you,” she explained, “when we went to the cabin. That’s why I was in such a bad mood, I was waiting for you to just give up and let me have my way with you.”

 

Jack’s own mouth quirked into a smile, shaking his head. “For future reference, Miss Fisher, unheated, snowy cabins with murderers camping nearby are not my idea of a romantic getaway.”

 

 

She shrugged. “It worked out okay.”

 

He blinked in seeming amazement, not even dignifying that with an answer, and then his face sobered again, no guesses where his mind had gone.

 

“I’m here, Jack,” she reminded him, taking comfort in the way his gaze focused back on her. “We both are.”

“We are,” he agreed, resolve replacing his momentary flash of sorrow, and he leant forward to capture her mouth again, pulling her closer and kissing deeper until she moaned, pulling back just enough to speak.

 

“No more wasting time?” she asked, leaning her forehead against his so she could still look at him.

 

He gave a fractional nod, one hand coming up to cup her cheek. “Agreed,” he murmured. “Though just to be clear,” he added with a smirk, “for every quarrel we have ahead of us, this was your idea.”

 

She laughed, rolling her eyes and kissing him again, before pulling back to look him square in the eye.

 

“True,” she acknowledged. “But it’s one that you agreed to.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Bedridden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can stay in bed for six weeks or you can never walk again. Up to you.” Fluffier than I expected. Most decidedly still Phrack, but a little more towards Gen than previous chapters. Teen and Up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 15 really did not want to come out, so instead of forcing it I decided to just focus on this one instead, but hopefully you'll get some Manhandling later in the month. I accidentally wrote 9k again. Send help. This show has ruined me.

 

 

It had been a stupid mistake, but one that had cost nonetheless. She just hadn’t seen the rope – far too caught up in the chase – and everything had happened quickly after that. First there’d been the cold, hard ground beneath her. Then her brain had realised what was happening and there had been _pain_ , intense and shocking. Then there had been Jack, loyally by her side as always, pulling her from the ground with gentle, firm hands.

 

After that had come Mac, and words that she decidedly did not want to hear.

 

“Broken?” she’d demanded. “No, it can’t be.”

 

“You’re absolutely right,” Mac had shot back. “I must be mistaken, let me just go and return my medical degree as forfeit.”

 

Phryne had rolled her eyes, huffing out a breath as she’d glared at her friend. “Well what can you do for me? I’m right in the middle of a case, Mac.”

 

And Mac had only laughed, shaking her head as she looked at her. “You don’t need me to tell you the cure for a broken leg, Phryne, you’ve treated plenty of those yourself.”

 

“Yes, but my treatment was bedrest, Mac – now you can’t possibly be thinking of putting me on that, can you?”

 

Mac had stared back, not an ounce of apology in her expression and Phryne had let out a groan of utter frustration. “You can’t be serious. How long?”

 

“Six weeks.”

 

“ _Six weeks_?” she’d exclaimed, absolutely aghast. “I can’t stay in bed for six weeks, Mac, I’ll go absolutely spare!”

 

“You can stay in bed for six weeks or you can never walk again,” Mac had countered, blunt and unsympathetic. “Up to you.”

 

And that had rather decided it. Six weeks, trapped in her bed – she couldn’t fathom it – but still it was better than never walking again, as her friend had rightly pointed out, so she hadn’t really had much of a choice. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had to slow down quite like it, and she’d been afraid of all the things that could happen whilst she was unable to move.

 

It wasn’t so long, though, in the grand scheme of things. That was how she had reasoned with herself, anyway. After all, what could really happen in six weeks?

 

 

**Week 1**

 

“And so I told her, you can’t just go around telling people what to do and expect them not to stand up for themselves.”

 

Phryne snorted out a chuckle. “And what did she say to that?”

 

“She sent me to the Headmistress!” Jane exclaimed, irritated, and Phryne laughed.

 

“Well, yes, I suppose she did – teachers don’t tend to like it so much when you tell them what to do, Jane. In general, it’s meant to go the other way around.”

 

“But _why_?” Jane insisted. “Why does she get to make me do things I don’t want to just because she’s a teacher? She’s not better than me!”

 

“No,” Phryne agreed, “and I agree that we shouldn’t have to do things we don’t want to – but sometimes there are more subtle approaches, darling.”

 

“Like what?” Jane huffed.

 

“Like not burning your homework book in the middle of your maths class,” she retorted, expression sterner than she actually felt on the matter, but rather enjoying the girl’s indignation.

 

“Where can I burn it, then?” she asked, and Phryne shrugged.

 

“How about in the garden, where you’re not going to singe any of your classmates with it?”

 

“Larissa’s a prig she deserved it,” Jane grumbled and Phryne simply rolled her eyes.

 

“Jane, if you want to keep going to that lovely school I pay for, you can’t burn your homework – _or_ your classmates – and that’s that. Understood?” She raised an eyebrow and Jane pouted a minute but then nodded.

 

“Fine,” she agreed with a rather over dramatic sigh. “But when the school year’s over can we have a bonfire?” She added with eyes full of hope, hope that Phryne absolutely could not deny.

 

“Deal,” she replied, “we’ll burn the mathematics.” And the girl grinned.

 

“Jolly good,” she said, standing from her perch on the bed. “I’ll hold you to that.”

 

“I’d expect nothing less.”  


With that Jane danced off, leaving the door open as everyone tended to now, and Phryne watched her go with a sigh.

 

Being bedridden was boring. Decidedly so. And as much as she was enjoying the increased quality time she was getting to spend with people – Jane more than anyone – it was also decidedly taking away from her time with other people.

 

Or one other person, in particular.

 

She had barely seen Jack all week, and it irked her. Greatly. He had, of course, been devotedly by her side in the hospital, and had insisted on helping Bert and Cec get her home – only departing when the time had come for Dot to help her change so she could get into bed. He’d visited too, the first day, but since then she’d barely heard from him, and it confused her. She knew that he was busy – they had still been in the middle of a case when she’d tripped, after all – but that was all the more reason why she though he might have been there. Her leg may have been out of action but her mind certainly wasn’t.

 

“Dot?” she called, and her companion was there in an instant, attentive as always. The poor girl needed to take some time off.

 

“Yes, Miss Fisher? What can I get you?”

 

Phryne sighed. “Well firstly you can go find somewhere to sit that’s not just outside my room. Either sit in here and let me enjoy your company for a while or go and do something with yourself that’s not waiting on me, please,” she insisted, feeling guilty. Dot had barely left her side, fetching and carrying, helping her with the little movement she was allowed from bed to bathroom and back again. It was probably even less fun for Dot than it was for her, and she knew she was miserable, so she could only imagine how Dot felt.

 

“Miss Fisher, it’s no trouble, really I –”

 

“I insist,” Phryne interrupted, looking her square in the eye. “Go and do something fun for me. Take Hugh to the pictures. Bake a cake. Knit. Whatever you want, please, just not tending to my every little need. It’s undignified for both of us.”

 

Dot opened her mouth looking like she wanted to argue again but Phryne held up a hand. “If you don’t take the offer I might not make it again. Six weeks I have to be in this bed, Dot, do you really want to spend six weeks sitting on the landing waiting for me to need more tea?”

 

Dot shut her mouth, shooting Phryne a small but grateful smile. “It would be nice to go and see Hugh, thank you, Miss.”

 

Phryne smiled, relieved. “You’re welcome,” she told her, and she meant it – truly she did. Dot turned to leave, and she called out once more after her. “Oh, and Dot?”

 

“Yes, Miss Fisher?” she asked, expression curious.

 

“If,” she started, keeping her voice as casual as possible, “you should happen to see the Inspector on your travels… I don’t suppose you could mention I have something important to tell him about the case, could you?”

 

Dot frowned. “But Miss Fisher you haven’t been working the case since you came home, have you?”

 

“Well no,” Phryne admitted with a little tilt of her head. “But Jack doesn’t need to know that, does he?”

 

A knowing smile crept up Dot’s face. “Right you are, Miss. Consider it done.”

 

“Dot, you’re a treasure.” Phryne grinned, sinking back against her pillows. “Have fun with Hugh.”

 

She smiled and nodded, ducking back out of the room, and Phryne shifted contentedly.

 

Now all she had to do was wait.

 

 

**Week 2**

 

Jack, it seemed, had come far too wise to her antics than she had believed. He hadn’t shown, only leaving a message for her via Mr. Butler that she should rest and focus on healing and leave this one to him.

 

She was not impressed. Leave it to him? She’d rather break her other leg than leave anything to any man, _even_ Jack. It was with that thought in mind that she’d called her trusty friends around and sent them to gather whatever evidence they could.

 

If Jack wouldn’t bring the case to her then she would just have to bring him to her with the case. Or bring the case to herself and then bring him. Bring herself to the case and him to her? Whichever way, she wanted Jack, and the case, within her reach as soon as possible. It wasn’t just that she was annoyed at his seeming avoidance – though she was, incredibly so – but in all honesty she just missed him. More so knowing he was solving a case without her, but even without the case. She was so used to Jack’s reassuring and steady presence that it unnerved her to be without it and she wanted things back to normal as soon as possible.

 

Alas, the more she tried, the more he somehow seemed to outsmart her. Every errand she sent Dot on, every covert operation, Hugh always seemed to have made it there first. Every time she sent Bert and Cec to find, retrieve, spy – Jack had apparently been there to intercept them, to send them on their way. She didn’t understand, but her frustration was only growing, and it was not aiding her in terms of patience.

 

“I’m a fast learner, Mac, maybe I’m a fast healer as well – you don’t know – two weeks could be enough for my bones!”

 

Her best friend didn’t seem to see fit to dignify that with an answer, instead just taking a swig of her whisky and staring her down.

 

Phryne stared back, stubborn, but Mac didn’t give a single inch, and Phryne huffed out a rather over-exaggerated sigh.

 

“If you’re that desperate to see him, Phryne, I suggest you just ask.”

 

Her mouth fell open, scandalised. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mac, I’m just bored of being in this bed.”

 

“‘Course you are,” Mac shrugged. “And you miss Jack.”

 

“I… that’s… beside the point,” she groaned, throwing her head back against the pillows.

 

“Is it?” Mac asked, far too amused for Phryne’s liking.

 

“He’s keeping me off the case, Mac!” she protested, irritation taking over. “He’s not only avoiding me he’s actively stopping me from working on it, it’s not fair.”

 

Mac rolled her eyes, swirling the whisky around in her glass and propping her feet up on the bed. “Did it occur to you he just wants you back in one piece?”

 

“I’m in one piece, Mac,” she protested angrily, “there’s no reason to keep me out of it.”

 

“Maybe he’s just enjoying the peace and quiet, then.”

 

Phryne shot her a filthy look, folding her arms across her chest, but Mac met her gaze unfazed, taking another long dreg of whisky with an eyebrow raised in challenge, waiting to see if she’d let herself be baited further. She wouldn’t, not this time, and she sighed instead, hating the satisfied smirk on Mac’s lips.

 

Everyone was growing remarkably more and more unhelpful about Jack’s absent interference, even Dot conceding that with her out of action they were being heinously outmanoeuvred. It wasn’t fair though, and she didn’t understand Jack’s stubbornness on the matter. She was still four weeks away from freedom, however, and the more everyone refused to cooperate the harder it got to do anything about it.

 

The whole thing was starting to feel like a conspiracy, if she was honest, and she narrowed her eyes at where Mac was still sipping innocently on the amber liquid in her glass, wondering what her friend might or mightn’t know. She wouldn’t put it past her, wouldn’t put it past any of them, conspiring to keep her confined for her own supposed good – her patience was hardly well renowned, after all, but how they might ever think that actively keeping her from a case would dull her interest in it she didn't know. Surely they knew that that only made it more tantalising?

 

Still, if everyone was in on it – which was a strong possibility – that left her rather out of options, unable to move as she was, and she wondered if that, perhaps, was the point. They were all far too loyal for their own good, not to mention hers, and she sighed to herself quietly as she wondered if any of them might be broken. If she was going to catch them out on this, she’d need one ally at least.

 

From the corner of her eyes she spotted movement, the swish of a pleated skirt dancing past her door, and an idea occurred to her.

 

“Jane?” she called. “Is that you?”

 

Her daughter stopped short, poking her head around the doorframe with interest. “Yes, are you alright?” she asked. “Can I get you something?”

 

Phryne cast her eyes from the girl to Mac, who was regarding her with thinly veiled suspicion. This would definitely have to wait until her dear friend had departed, Phryne’s own suspicions firming as she examined Mac’s expression.

 

“A cup of tea would be lovely, darling.”

 

Jane smiled and nodded. “Of course, I’ll bring it right up.”  


Phryne smiled back gratefully, and then settled more firmly back into her pillows. “What?” she asked then as Mac continued to watch her carefully. “You told me to rest, I’m resting.”

 

“Mhmm,” Mac hummed in response, seeming to get comfier in her own chair, eyes still narrowed. “Good.”

 

She huffed again, fiddling a little agitatedly with the sheets around her. Mac was evidently up to something, most likely trying to keep her out of harm’s way – which though objectively sweet was also deeply infuriating – and Phryne idly began to wonder if the constant watchfulness of her friends and staff was a little more than just their devotedness.

 

Either way, she was definitely going to have to get to the bottom of this.

 

 

**Week 3**

 

“Inspector Robinson!” Jane called, and suppressed a giggle as she startled him.

 

“Jane!” he exclaimed, offering her a kind smile despite his obvious surprise at seeing her stroll into his office at City South. “What on Earth are you doing here?” Jane watched in fascination as his surprise started turning to concern, worry seeping into his eyes as he looked at her. “Is everything… is Miss Fisher alright?”

 

“Oh, yes,” Jane replied with a practiced smirk, coming to stand in front of his desk. “A little too alright, if you ask me.”

 

The Inspector cocked an eyebrow at that, “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Well,” she shrugged. “If I broke a leg I’m sure I wouldn’t be allowed to sneak around crime scenes at all hours of the night… but I suppose Miss Phryne does as she pleases, doesn’t she?”

 

She watched with glee as the Inspector’s eyes widened somewhat comically, mouth falling open. “She’s _what_?” he demanded, and Jane threw a hand to her mouth, painting innocence across her features with well-honed expertise.

 

“Oh,” she gasped. “Was I not supposed to say? I thought it was you who she was going with… it’s why I came. I was going to scold you for not letting her rest!”

 

He stared at her, slack-jawed.

 

“Obviously I was wrong,” she noted with feigned apology. “I’m so sorry for wasting your time, Inspector.”

 

She turned to leave, thankful for the excuse to have her back to him when his call of, “Wait, Jane!” caused her lips to quirk into a victorious smile. She schooled her features quickly, turning back to him with wide eyes.

 

“Yes, Inspector?”

 

“Is she really so determined to be involved in the case that she’s sneaking out with a broken leg?” he asked, frustration in his tone.

 

“I’ve seen Miss Williams helping her down the stairs,” Jane nodded, watching the lie pull a soft curse from his mouth with satisfaction.

 

“Miss Williams? Damnit, I _told_ the Doctor…” he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking up with purpose and starting to gather things off his desk.

 

Jane regarded him with curiosity. “What are you doing?” she asked, keeping her voice light, and he sighed a heavy sigh.

 

“Exactly what she wants me to do, Jane, and what Doctor MacMillan explicitly forbade me from doing… I’m giving her the case files.”

 

“What?” Jane asked tone dripping in insincere surprise. “But you can’t do that, that’s what I came here to tell you not to do!”

 

Jack only shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Obstinate, idiotic, _foolish_ woman… walking around with a broken leg… she’ll cripple herself and then where will she be?”  


Jane bit down on the laugh that was trying to escape her mouth, taking a deep breath to steady herself and keep her face straight.

 

“Inspector?” she asked, causing him finally to look back at her.

 

“Jane,” he said, serious. “I need you to do me a favour.”

 

“Oh?” she asked, eyebrow raised, victory bells sounding in her head. He shuffled the papers in his hands, tapping them into a neat pile, and then holding them out to her.

 

“Take these to Miss Fisher,” he instructed. “Tell her Jack says to stay in bed where she should be, and to write down any thoughts she has, then have Miss Williams bring it back to me.”

 

Jane had to bite her own tongue to keep from grinning as she took the file in her hands, keeping her expression deceptively blank.

 

“You’re not going to get her in more trouble, are you?” she asked for effect, looking from the Inspector to the file and back again.

 

“No, Jane,” he sighed. “I’m trying to keep her out of trouble.”  


“What will Doctor MacMillan say?” she pressed, and Jack fixed her with a stern glare.

 

“Doctor MacMillan isn’t going to find out.”

 

“But Cec and Bert can know?” One part of her mission was done, but there was intel she had yet to gather before she could count the whole thing a success.  

 

“No!” Jack exclaimed. “No don’t breathe a word to them, they’ll report straight back to the Doctor. Don’t mention it the Constable, either, or Mr. Butler if it comes to that. It has to stay secret, Jane.”  


Jane blinked, regarding him with a confusion that was somewhat genuine.

 

“Inspector?” she asked, because she was curious to know and she daren’t ask her adoptive mother, who’d been so certain in her knowledge that their plan would work. “Why are you doing this?”

 

He startled, evidently not expecting the question nor altogether sure how to answer it. She had agreed to do this – of course she had – the idea of being in on a secret plan far too fun to turn down, but she still wasn’t sure why it was necessary. They were all adults and yet each of them seemed to be tiptoeing around the others, tricking and deceiving each other all under the pretence of doing it for Miss Fisher’s own good. From what she could tell, all her guardian wanted was a distraction before she went out of her wits. And potentially to see the Inspector, who seemed to have agreed with Doctor MacMillan that he shouldn’t even enter the house.

 

She didn’t understand adults one bit.

 

“What do you mean, Jane?” He frowned, watching her carefully, though nothing patronising in his gaze. He seemed as genuinely curious as she was.

 

“Well,” she hummed, tucking the file safely under her arm. “I know you’re all worried about her healing – I am too – but everyone seems so caught up in what they think is best for her, have any of you stopped to ask _her_ what she wants?”

 

Jack blinked. “I…”

 

She took his hesitation as opportunity because, really, as much fun as she was having – she wasn’t blind. She’d seen the way that Miss Phryne’s head had turned on instinct to the door every time she heard it ring, she’d seen the disappointment in her eyes every time it wasn’t the Inspector. She’d seen the way her eyes had started to glaze over, mind going elsewhere as Jane babbled about everything and nothing to try and distract her. She knew they were all trying to help, but she was almost certain that they weren’t, not one bit.

 

“She’s miserable,” Jane interrupted him. “Not that she’s making any secret of that, she’s moping like anyone’s business, but that doesn’t change the facts.”

 

Jack took a long breath, leaning back against his filing cabinet and running a hand through his hair. “I know, Jane – or at least, I figured. Miss Fisher is not someone who likes to be slowed down, and this is a frustrating hurdle for her – but unless she looks after herself now, it could be a permanent one.”

 

Jane nodded, that wasn’t news, and it wasn’t what she meant.

 

“But did any of you stop to think that the way to slow her down wasn’t to stop her altogether?”

 

He looked shocked at that, brow creasing. “We just… well Doctor MacMillan thought… and everyone agreed… ”

 

“Do you agree?” she demanded, raising an eyebrow at him.

 

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve never known anything truly slow her down, I wasn’t convinced my not being there would help but, Jane, we’re all just trying to protect her, that’s all.”

 

“I know that.” Jane nodded. “I just don’t think any of you are doing a very good job of it.”

 

With that she turned, file tucked tightly under her arm, and swept back out of his office.

 

 

**Week 4**

 

“Okay, who did it?” Mac asked, rounding on the room with eyes that she knew spoke of trouble. “We had a plan, people, but it only works if you all stick to it!”

 

A sea of confused faces stared back at her, and she sighed. She should have known this was never going to work, all of them far too loyal and her best friend far too devious – of course one of them was going to break in the end. She narrowed her eyes, examining all their faces for any trace of culpability, though all of them remained devilish hard to read. Other than Dot, whose quiet panic spoke of total innocence and Mac quickly removed her from suspicion.

 

Of course it wouldn’t be Dot.

 

“Someone,” she murmured, marching up and down the row of them like a general staring down troops, “snuck a case file into this house, and someone, somehow, managed to frighten the Inspector with something worse than the thought of total emasculation to get it from him. So, who was it?”

 

Everyone remained silent, stoic and calm. There was confusion in some of their eyes, but no panic, no guilt. She cursed internally, she didn’t have a clue which of them it could have been. It was a simple instruction, really, or it had seemed one. Keep Phryne away from the case long enough for her to actually recover for once. She knew her friend was reckless, one of the many things she loved about her, but the truth was that for the most part she was exceedingly good at avoiding major injury. This was different. She knew that Phryne was aware, but was sure that in no way would she truly confront, what it would mean to brush this off as another simple scrape. She was one of the most active people Mac knew – and the life of a cripple would not suit her – but that was what she would have if she didn’t give herself time.

 

Which was a problem, when the case was still ongoing – Phryne’s curiosity far too stubborn for her or its own good. So she’d thought, understandably, it would be easier to just keep her away from it, keep her separated from its existence until she got bored of trying to involve herself and focused on something else in the meantime. As always, though, Phryne’s superb level of obstinacy had shocked even her and somehow – God knew, maybe she’d trained animals to fetch and carry for her – she had procured the case file anyway. Whilst bedridden. The woman really was incorrigible.

 

She was not impressed at being betrayed, either, not when everyone had agreed wholeheartedly that they should do all in their power to make sure Phryne healed, their love and concern for her all winning out over their sympathy at her boredom. They’d all rather see her bored for six weeks than bedridden for life, that was the first thing they’d agreed upon – even poor Dot, for whom the idea of deception had been quite obviously an uncomfortable one. She had thought they were all a team, and she was unhappy that someone had caved.

 

“I know you think you might be helping,” Mac continued, “but she’s nearly there now. If we can keep her in that bed another two weeks, then she’s out of the woods. That’s going to require all of us working together, though, so whoever did it just own up – and then we can move on to the next stage.”

 

Silence reigned still, and she let out a frustrated sigh. This was much harder work than she’d ever been anticipating – though that was perhaps her own foolishness. She knew her friend, after all.

 

“It wasn’t them, Doctor,” a voice came from behind her, and she turned in surprise to see Jane standing in the doorway to the kitchen, steel in her eyes.

 

Mac cursed her own stupidity. The child, of course. Dirty move, Fisher.

 

Jane stepped into the room, eyeing them all carefully, and then turned to Mac.

 

“You need to stop,” she told her, and Mac felt her mouth fall open.

 

“Stop what, Jane?” she asked, confused at the anger in her face. “We’re only trying to make sure that Phryne keeps out of trouble until she’s well again.”

 

And that was the truth, most of it.

 

Jane, it seemed though, was having none of it. “I know, that’s what everyone keeps saying, but you’re all idiots.”

 

“Jane!” Dot exclaimed in horror, and a sheepish expression passed over the girl’s face.

 

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “But it’s true. You’re all so busy trying to keep her out of the case you’ve all missed what’s going on.”

 

Mac raised a careful eyebrow at the girl, genuinely curious as to what she might have caught on to. “And what’s that, Jane?”

 

“The Inspector!” Jane replied, as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world, and they all shared a quick glance with each other. Mac did her best not to smile.

 

Jane let out a frustrated huff, and continued. “You kept him away because you didn’t want her to discuss the case, correct?”

 

They all exchanged another careful look, and Mac nodded.

 

“Did it occur to any of you that she might miss him?” Jane demanded then, hands on her hips, accusation in her face, and Mac opened her mouth to explain.

 

“Jane, I…”

 

“No!” Jane cut her off. “All you adults are as bad as each other, so busy convincing yourselves that you’re protecting people without ever stopping to think that maybe there are some things they don’t need to be protected from.”

 

The room was silent, all of them listening to the girl’s tirade in slightly amused shock.

 

“Did any of you stop to think that it’s not the case she’s so desperate to get a glimpse of, it’s the Inspector? She’s not going to say it,” Jane ploughed on, “because she’s stubborn and proud and probably a little ashamed, but she wants to see him, I know she does. And he wants to see her, too. Not just about the case.”

 

Mac stared at her, a little speechless. Jane, she thought – though admittedly not for the first time – was far too clever for her own good.

 

“Stop deciding what’s best for her amongst yourselves, and go and ask what she wants,” the girl finished with a huff, staring them all down. “And here’s an idea,” she added, “If she starts showing signs she wants to chase after a suspect – stop her. Her leg’s broken she can’t exactly run away from you.”

 

At that Cec snorted out a chuckle, and Dot hit him over the arm, but it didn’t stop him. Bert followed shortly after and soon the room was in fits of laughter, Mac included. Mac watched Jane frown at them, clearly offended by the laughter, until Cec reached out to pat her on the arm and Dot wiped a tear away and spoke. “Oh, dear Jane, you really are a treasure.”

 

Dot was right, she was, and Mac shook her head, feeling guilty. She was right, of course, but there was one key detail she was missing.

 

“Jane,” Mac said, voice soft and amused as she looked at her. “What do you think we’ve been trying to do all this time?”

 

Jane blinked, gaping at her. “What?”

 

Mac smirked. “This was never just about keeping her out of trouble, Jane. I mean that’s the most important part, granted,” she conceded, the concern still not gone from her that somehow Phryne would find a way to ruin her healing in the next two weeks. “But we all rather thought two birds, one stone.”

 

Jane’s jaw dropped. “So you _have_ been keeping the Inspector away from her on purpose?”

 

They all shared slightly sheepish glances themselves, amusement mixing with guilt at their plan. Mac explained. “It’s just a little nudge, Jane. Like you said – they’re both far too stubborn. Phryne won’t admit she misses him; the Inspector won’t _do_ anything… we just thought the frustration might inspire them to action.”

 

“That’s... ” Jane trailed off, and Dot’s face fell.

 

“Terrible, we know. I’m sorry, Jane, we should never have been so deceptive.”

 

“Brilliant,” Jane replied though, ignoring Dot’s guilt. “That’s brilliant – why didn’t you get me on board in the first place? I was on _her_ team for goodness’ sake, I could have ruined it!”

 

Mac couldn’t help but laugh at that. She’d been so confused to discover her resolutely childless and independent best friend had found herself a daughter, until she’d met Jane, and then it had made sense – and it had never quite stopped surprising her how perfect a ward she made for her.

 

“Alright then,” Mac shrugged, turning back to the team with a newfound resolve. “Well that sorts that out.”

 

They looked at each other, then back to her, expectant, and she mused on what their next step should be. Jane sneaking Phryne the case file had not been planned – and she was impressed that the girl had managed it, but the unexpected contact between them rather interrupted her own proceedings. Still, Jane clearly knew what she was doing – she was yet to discover how she had wheedled the information out of the dutiful Inspector in the first place, and she wondered if that wasn’t the key to pulling this off rather better than she had even hoped herself.

 

“Alright, Jane?” she asked, deciding not to waste her valuable new resource. “Tell us what you would do.”

 

 

**Week 5**

 

“Inspector Robinson!”

 

He looked up at the sound of his name, a strange sense of Déjà vu descending on him but for the different tone of Jane Ross’ voice. The last time she had swept into his office it had been with a smirk and a scolding, this time it was with abject terror hanging in her eyes. He leapt from his chair without even responding, ready to greet her at the front of his desk.

 

“What is it?” he asked, though he didn’t have to. What else could it be? _Who_ else could it be? He’d prayed that sending her the files might be enough, that feeding her mind with the knowledge of what was happening even when she couldn’t investigate herself, even when he couldn’t see her and discuss it himself, might be enough. Evidently, it had not been, and now Jane’s frightened presence in his office could surely only mean one thing.

 

She had hurt herself.

 

Again, or further. Somehow. And Jane was here which meant it must be bad – though why she hadn’t simply called he didn't know. All he knew was that her eyes were panicked and scared, emotion he felt himself mirror back without question. He grabbed her hand and pulled her after him, opening the passenger door as he had done so many times for her mother, before rounding to his own seat and gripping the wheel with white knuckles.

 

“Where?” he asked, and her voice dropped to a whisper.

 

“Home.”

 

.

 

He was barely capable of waiting for Jane as he rushed to the door, pushing it open himself for once and dispensing with formalities. He just needed to see her.

 

“Inspector!” Mr. Butler exclaimed as he saw him, expression crestfallen, “Wait, you might not –”

 

Jack ignored him, heading for the stairs. As he ascended a figure crashed into him, and he looked up from his fearful stupor in surprise to meet Dot’s gaze. There were tears in her eyes and she looked at him only once, briefly, before turning away and continuing to run downstairs, the sound of her sobs echoing behind her.

 

Jack steeled himself, heart thundering in his chest, and continued his ascent. He was only somewhat surprised to see Bert and Cec on the landing, but for perhaps the first time in their acquaintance, Jack felt truly threatened by their presence, their gazes unfriendly and cold.

 

“One thing,” Bert grumbled, voice low and dangerous. “‘S’all we asked, one thing, leave her alone ‘til she was better. But you couldn’t even do that, could you?”

 

Jack’s throat tightened, an apology he didn’t even know how to begin to make on his tongue, but he couldn’t word it. Not until he knew what he was apologising for. Not until he’d seen her.

 

“Please,” he begged. “Please just let me see her?”

 

The cabbies looked at each other, then Bert shrugged.

 

“Up to the Doc.”

 

With that Cec crossed to the door behind them and pushed it open a crack, giving a short jerk of his head towards where they were standing. A moment later, the crack in the door widened, and Doctor MacMillan stepped out, face grave.

 

“I’ve done what I can, Inspector, but the damage is done,” she told him with no overture, accusation in her eyes. He looked from her to the door behind and back again, distraught. This was his fault. All of it.

 

“Doctor MacMillan, I know this is my fault… and I understand if you can’t forgive me, but please, will you let me see her?”

 

She examined him for a moment, but finally gave a curt nod, stepping to one side and opening up the space between him and the door. He stared at it, and it seemingly stared back. It had been so many weeks since he had seen her, and now here he was and he barely knew what to expect when he pushed the door open.

 

It certainly wasn’t her sitting up in bed with a tray of tea across her lap and D. H. Lawrence in one hand, and his jaw fell groundward when that was the sight that greeted him.

 

“Phryne?” he asked, a disbelieving whisper, and her head turned at the sound, face breaking into shock and joy as she took him in.

 

“Jack!” she exclaimed, setting down the book and pushing aside her tray so she could turn to face him. As she examined him though, her grin changed to a frown. “Whatever happened to you?”

 

“I…” he stood speechless, staring at her.

 

“…Jack?” she asked again, clearly concerned.

 

“But you’re… you’re fine,” he breathed, mind not understanding what was so clearly in front of his eyes. He turned briefly back the direction he had come from, where Mac and Bert and Cec and all of them had told him with word and expression of heartache awaiting him, and realisation dawned on him like a slap to the face.

 

They had played him for an absolute fool.

 

For he had not paused, had not hesitated, had run for her with such singular purpose that it could not be denied – and now here he was in her bedroom, her in satin pyjamas and a bemused expression, and him, with a panicked confession on the tip of his tongue and an ache in his chest that came from missing her for so many weeks that wouldn’t let him choke it back down again no matter how he tried. He had to admit, it had been very well done, even if he wasn’t altogether sure why or to what end.

 

“Jack?” She blinked, concern beginning to overtake confusion in her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I…” There were no words though, nothing except the desperate, panicked things that he had been prepared to say. Confession and apology, both. He couldn’t use them, all wrong for the situation he’d walked in on, but he had nothing else, his brain stubbornly refusing to supply him the vocabulary. He’d been so scared, so convinced that she had come to more harm, and unlike the last time that had happened the only direction he had wanted to run was hers. It had been so long since he’d even seen her, and the sight of her was almost more than he could take. What if it had been true, and he’d gone so long without seeing her? What if she had come to harm and he hadn’t been there to help her simply because someone had told him to stay away? What if, what if, what if… there were too many to count. Their entire relationship was what ifs, and he suddenly found not a single one of them seemed to matter to him anymore. All that mattered was her, staring up at him with an expression that rather begged she thought he’d lost his mind, more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen.

 

Words and what ifs could damn themselves, and with that thought he crossed the room without giving himself another moment to hesitate, hand snaking around her neck and pulling her mouth to his in a searing kiss. She squeaked a little at the unexpected contact, gasping against his lips before her hands wove around his neck and she pulled him tighter towards her, tilting her head and letting him kiss her deeper. She pulled him down so he was sitting at the edge of the bed, fingers weaving their way into his hair and making something deep in his abdomen tighten.

 

After a moment, she pulled back again, just enough to speak.

 

“Jack,” she whispered, the word breathy and a little awed. “Where did that… when did you… oh god, I missed you.”

 

The words took him a little by surprise, and he backed out of her grip just enough to look her in the eye. “You did?”

 

She blinked, seeming almost shocked herself at the confession. “I… yes. Although if that’s the price you plan to pay for it then I’ll be happy for you to bench me more often,” she added with a smirk.

 

“Bench you?” Jack asked, though, confused. “I didn’t bench you, I’ve just been letting you heal.”

 

Phryne’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been thwarting all my attempts to investigate the case,” she told him, accusation rather than question, and he frowned.

 

“What attempts to investigate? Sneaking out of the house on a broken leg – I’d like to have been able to thwart those, believe me.”

 

Guilt washed over her features, and she shot him a sheepish look. “Well I didn’t _actually_ sneak out of the house, Jack, I’m not a total idiot. I just… told Jane to tell you that so you’d give me the files.”

 

Jack stilled, bewildered. Though, as he thought on it – perhaps he shouldn’t be. It was false pretences, after all, that had led him here tonight. Jane truly was a fantastic actress, he had to give her that. In fact, they’d all put on rather a show, and the beginnings of comprehension began to take route in Jack’s mind. He didn’t have all the facts yet, though, so he asked, “What attempts are you talking about, then?”

 

Phryne huffed. “Dot,” she said as if he should know. “Always being intercepted by Hugh… and you sending Bert and Cec away. You couldn’t even let me investigate from afar, it’s hardly fair!”

 

“Phryne, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

Something was _definitely_ afoot.

 

“You stopped them gathering evidence!” she insisted.

 

“I never saw them getting evidence,” he shot back. “They’ve all barely left this house in case you _had_ tried to sneak out.”

 

Phryne’s gaze dropped briefly to the sheets, eyes moving back and forth as something turned itself over in her mind. He wondered if it was what was taking shape in his own.

 

“Jack?” she asked then, looking back at him with suspicion like he felt in his own gut hanging heavy in her blue eyes. “Why haven’t you been to visit?”

 

“Doctor MacMillan asked me not to, not until the case was over and you were more healed, so you weren’t tempted to try and investigate with me.”

 

Phryne scoffed. “Mac knows you wouldn’t have let me get out of this bed anymore than she would. That’s a terrible reason.”

 

He inclined his head in agreement – that had been rather his thoughts on it when she’d originally asked, but Hell had no fury like a protective best friend, or posse of loyal household staff for that matter, and Phryne _had_ needed to heal, so he’d taken the road of least resistance. Now, however, he was strongly beginning to think he might just have been playing into the hands of something decidedly bigger. “I didn’t think it would make much difference either way,” he explained aloud. “But I just wanted what was best for you, and Doctor MacMillan is, well, a doctor. I thought I should listen to her judgement. Now, however…”

 

She frowned up at him. “Jack?” she pressed. “What is it?”

 

He shifted, meeting her gaze. “Miss Fisher, I didn’t come here tonight with the intent to… well, it wasn’t planned.”

 

She arched a delicate eyebrow at him, and he continued. “I came because I was told you were… well I was led to believe that you had been…”

 

His face was clearly enough for him not to need to finish the sentence, her own expression darkening as she asked, “Injured?” dead on, ice creeping into her tone. He nodded. “Who by?”

 

He hesitated for a moment, reluctant to drop the girl in it despite how easily she seemed to have deceived him these last few days.

 

“Jack?” Phryne pressed.

 

“It was Jane – she came to see me, but they all… they all told me it was true. I thought those red-raggers were going to rough me up before I came in here, to be frank.”

 

Phryne’s eyes fell closed, mouth quirking into something halfway between smile and grimace as she shook her head. “Those absolute… Mac!” she yelled then, startling him, and he turned to the door, curious. “Mac!” she called again. “I know you’re there.”

 

The door cracked open, and the doctor’s head appeared, a mask of innocence across her features. “Can I get you something?”

 

“In.” Phryne all but growled. “Now.”

 

Mac swallowed, and stepped into the room, pushing the door shut behind her. Phryne just shot her a look at that, though, and she reached behind her to pull the door open again – more heads than Jack really cared to count poking in around it. Were he not already too mortified to move he’d have stood from his rather compromising position so close to her on the bed – but he decided to surrender himself to fate. His audience seemed to be the ones who’d been manipulating it, after all.

 

Phryne looked from her best friend to the gaggle of onlookers at her bedroom door and back again. “I think we both have an understanding that something’s going on here,” she started. “But would you like to enlighten us on precisely what it is you’ve all been playing at?”

 

Jack watched, fascinated, as the lot of them shared rather equal looks of guilt – none of them able to look him or Phryne in the eye.

 

No one spoke.

 

“Mac?” Phryne demanded, and Mac opened her mouth, face defensive, when a voice came from the doorway.

 

“We just wanted to help!” Jane cried, and Jack was a little taken aback by the genuine apology in her eyes. Or at least, it seemed genuine. He wasn’t altogether sure what to trust anymore, but he was going to give her the benefit of the doubt on this one. “I’m sorry if we upset you, Inspector, it was my idea not theirs!”

 

Phryne levelled a glare at her. “What was your idea, Jane?”

 

“Telling him you were hurt,” she told them, head hung in shame for a moment before looking up to meet Jack’s eye. “I saw how scared you were when you thought she was really sneaking out, and I just thought that if you thought something worse happened you might… do something.”

 

“Do something?” Jack repeated, raising an eyebrow at her.

 

Jane bit her lip, looking sheepish. “About the fact you love her?”

 

Jack’s mouth fell open. That was not how he had ever – in his absolute wildest dreams – imagined that being how that got said for the first time. He shot a panicked look at Phryne, but she was too focused on her adoptive daughter, absolute fury in her eyes.

 

“Jane, go to your room, _now_.”

 

The girl hung her head, and Jack felt a pang of sympathy for her. He was almost about to speak on it when, “Wait!”

 

Dot had spoken. “It’s not Jane’s fault, we asked her to do it.”

 

Jack shook his head, confusion and wonder mixing within him until he was sure this must be some strange dream he was having.

 

“You… alright,” Phryne took a long, steadying breath, and he did the same.

 

“Alright,” she repeated. “Why don’t you explain to us from the beginning, hmm? Mac?” She turned to her friend with a smile just a little too sweet. “You can start.”

 

 

**Week 6**

 

“So I told her, you can’t just go around telling people what to do and expect them not to stand up for themselves.”

 

“And what did she say to that?”

 

“She said she thoroughly agreed, but she still doesn’t understand why she’s grounded.”

 

Jack laughed, and Phryne watched it with joy. There was little so precious as Jack’s laugh, and she had seen it more over the last week than she thought she ever had.

 

“I’m with her,” he said then, and she raised an eyebrow at him. “Well,” he explained, “it was an awful thing to do… probably took a few years off my life to be quite honest, but you have to give it to her – it worked rather well.”

 

Phryne couldn’t help but gape at him. “Are you telling me you’re actually taking her side? After what she did to you?”

 

“No,” Jack shrugged. “I’m just saying I can’t seem to find it in myself to be all that angry, Phryne. She’s a child, and she thought she was helping. If anyone should be grounded it’s her adult conspirators. They were at least old enough to understand it was wrong.”

 

“Mmm,” Phryne hummed in agreement. “But since it’s beyond my power to send them to their rooms and _you_ refused to lock them up, there’s not an awful lot we can do about that, I’m afraid.”  


“So why is Jane being punished?” She gaped at him, scandalised.

 

“So you _are_ taking her side?”

 

He rolled his eyes. “I’m staying firmly neutral in the matter.”

 

“Coward.”

 

“A happy one.”

 

She couldn’t help but smile at that, eyes roaming his face as he looked at her. He did seem happy, a fresh glint in his eye that made her feel pleasantly warm to think she had something to do with, a lightness in him – so changed from the man who had burst into her room so few days ago. She was furious, truly, that they had done that to him – though once she had calmed a little she’d reminded herself that no one but she and Jack knew what had transpired so many months before, the fear and the heartache that her apparent passing had caused between them. That was their secret, and the others couldn’t have known how deeply it had shaken the both of them. They’d been foolish, but once her anger had subsided a little she had realised that they hadn’t ever meant to be cruel.

 

And, to give them all their credit, it _had_ worked. That, she couldn’t be angry about. As much as she was feigning a fair amount of righteous indignation at them all for manipulating the two of them, she was only mildly annoyed, really. After such a long, careful dance, she and Jack had reached something of a stalemate before her injury. They had almost raced over the edge multiple times only to be repeatedly brought screeching back, and after so many interruptions they had both shied away again somewhat, as if waiting again for another sign to let them know they could continue.

 

Instead of a sign, though, they’d received more of a large billboard in the shape of meddling friends, but it had gifted her with Jack’s loving smile and his laughter and his kisses after so long of waiting for them. Besides which she knew that they had all only acted out of love, and that was a thought that warmed her despite her scepticism at their chosen methods. No, her sulking was much more for effect than true ill-feeling, and she didn’t honestly plan to drag it out much longer.

 

Just until she was allowed to walk again.

 

“One more day,” she decided aloud, and Jack raised an eyebrow in question. “One more day and then I’ll lift the punishment,” she explained.

 

He nodded, pensive. “Then what?”

 

“Then I thank her for the fact I can do this now,” she grinned, leaning forward to kiss him softly.

 

“Cake?” he inquired, and she shook her head, something altogether better in mind.

 

“Fire.”

 

Jack just blinked at her. “Do I want to know?”

 

Phryne shrugged. “It’s a girl thing.”

 

“I’ve no doubt.”

 

“It’s strange,” she mused then, and he gave a small, questioning hum.

 

“What is?”

 

“I was so angry about having to spend six weeks in this bed, so worried about what I might miss…” she trailed off, thinking.

 

“And?” he asked, eyes watching her carefully.

 

“Turns out the only thing I really missed was you.”

 

Jack seemed stunned by her words so she kissed him again to save him having to answer, content just with the feel of his mouth and his hands and the firm lines of his body pressed up against her. She moaned against his mouth, mumbling into the kiss.

 

“Do you know what the first thing I’m going to do when Mac gives me the go ahead for physical activity?” she asked, smirking wickedly as she kissed her way across his jaw and down his neck, delighting to see the shiver it sent through him.

 

“What?” he demanded, breathing a little uneven, and she pulled back to look at him, enjoying the hunger she saw dark in his eyes. Oh, the fun she was going to have.

 

“Something that I expect will keep us occupied day and night, possibly for several days.” She kissed her way further down his neck, towards the collar she had already shed of its tie, and past the buttons she had nimbly undone. Jack let out a soft moan, and she chuckled against his skin. “Can you guess?”

 

“Tell me, Miss Fisher.”

 

She chuckled, pulling back to grin at him. “I’m going to solve a murder, Jack.”

 

 


	12. Hostage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had been good at this, dammit, but now? Now he barely knows how to speak, let alone negotiate. Now, he is choking. Day 18's Hostage. Teen and Up. Most decidedly (A), forewarned is forearmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've given up trying to keep my days in order. Eclecticism, that's my new philosphy. Your hits, kudos, and comments on this mad(dening) collection are my life blood, I thank you humbly for them all. I apologise for this, my hand slipped.

 

 

“Jack!”

 

The word echoes in his ears, an uncharacteristic, terrified, scream – and his fingers tighten on his weapon. He looks from the gunman to his hostage and back, fear almost crippling him as her blue eyes lock with his. He watches, frozen, as the man (Harry, his name is, and somehow it feels wrong that someone with such evil intent could have such a normal sounding name) pushes the barrel of his gun against her temple.

 

Honestly, Jack has no idea how to proceed. Hostage situations had been a forte of his long ago when he’d been an up and coming officer working more vice than murder – the occurrence far more common than people often thought. Back in the day, he had been a champion mediator, and many times other officers had asked him to help talk people down – gunmen, knifemen, even a batman once, though that situation had been somewhat less intimidating to begin with. He had been good at this, dammit, but now? Now he barely knows how to speak, let alone negotiate. Now, he is choking.

 

“Let me go,” Harry growls, stepping backwards and tugging her with him. Jack watches as she stumbles, her nostrils flaring in anger at being manhandled thus, and he almost smiles at it. Even in a moment like this she manages to remain indignant. He almost hopes she has a plan – she knows how to fight, after all, and it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that she could give him the slip.

 

Except that his grip on her is tight, the gun against her skin so hard it must be bruising. All it would take is for her to flinch and there’d be lead in her skull. He can’t think about that though, won’t think about it. He’ll negotiate, because he’s good at it and that’s his _job_ – and doing his job has never been more important than at this moment.

 

Maybe it never will be again.

 

“We can make this right, Harry,” he says, and is almost shocked that his voice sounds so calm. His heart is beating in his chest like a hummingbird trapped in a tin and he thinks it must have been several long minutes since he’s taken a proper breath. Still, he won’t falter, won’t fail her. He can do this. “You can make this right. Just let her go, and we can talk about it.”

 

“There’s nothing to talk about!” Harry snaps, though. “I’m going to hang! What difference does it make?”

 

“You don’t have to hang, Harry,” Jack tells him, desperately trying to keep his voice as soothing as possible. Desperately trying not to let his panic show. “We can work something out, find a way, talk to the Judge. I’ll vouch for you, Harry, but you have to let her go because otherwise…” He trails off. He can’t think on it. “I will help you avoid the noose, Harry, but if you hurt her then, God help me, I’ll string the rope myself.”

 

Harry stills, considering for a moment before shaking his head. “No… no! Why should I trust you, you’re a copper! The minute I let her go you’d clap me in irons and lead me to the gallows. No.”

 

Jack readjusts his grip on his own gun, focusing his aim. It isn’t a clear shot by any stretch – or he might have made it already – but he’ll try, if it comes to be the last option.

 

“I don’t want anyone to die here today, Harry,” he murmurs, voice as soothing as he can make it. He’s learnt from years’ experience that it’s good to use a perpetrator’s name as much as possible in these situations, to try and forge any connection possible that might make them think twice about pulling the trigger. He’s concerned that Harry might be too far gone for that, but he’s damned if he won’t try anyway. “My preferred outcome here is for all of us to walk out of here alive.”

 

“For you and her to walk out alive, you mean!” Harry snaps back, digging the gun in a little further and making her wince. Rage curls through him and he closes his eyes for just a second before looking back at him.

 

As much as he thinks the man deserves to hang, as much as he would be quite happy in the knowledge of his demise just for the sake of who it is he chose to take at gunpoint – Jack is not a murderous man. Not by any stretch. He’ll do (and has done) what’s necessary, but war honed what was already a strong instinct to prevent the needless loss of any life. No matter how despicable that life might be. It’s a point of pride of his that no weapon he has owned on the force has ever taken life. Oh, he’s used them plenty, but never for a kill shot. Even years ago, in a situation just as fraught as this, on the darkened deck of a ship with Phryne (in trouble once more) lying prone beneath a gunman. Even with the adrenalin of the ongoing fight and terror gripping his every nerve, he had still only aimed to wound. So, when his next words come, there is absolute truth in them.

 

“I don’t want to shoot you, Harry, believe me. I will, without a moment’s doubt, but I don’t want to. It’s an easy fix for both of us, Harry. Just let her go.”

 

“I’d listen to him, if I were you,” she quips, and to an outside observer she might seem strangely unconcerned for someone with a gun to her head, but he hears the slight tremble beneath the words, and curses to himself.

 

She has no plan.

 

That’s that, then, he supposes. His last hope that there might be an easier solution here. It’s all up to him now, and failure is not an option.

 

“Harry,” he lowers his voice, injecting as much gravity as he can to cover the tremor that wants to take over. “It’s time to give up. You have my word I won’t let you hang if you just let her go unharmed.”

 

The man looks at him, eyes wild where they flicker from her to him and back again. “You promise?” he asks, and Jack feels the briefest glimmer of hope. Please, he prays to a god he’s never really believed is there, please can this end without bloodshed. Please can she be safe.

 

“I promise,” he breathes, lowering his gun a fraction and raising his other hand, palm out in placation. “Just let her go.”

 

Harry nods absently, and Jack sees the unmistakable glint of tears track their way down his cheeks. _Please_.

 

“Can you do that, Harry? Please?” He takes the smallest step forward, hand still outstretched, reaching for her, and he sees the hesitation in him – almost victorious.

 

Everything that happens then seems to happen in slow motion.

 

He sees the hesitation, the slight relaxation in the hand that holds the gun, but she senses it. There’s a fractional widening of her eyes, the acknowledgement of a chance presenting itself to her, and the moment after, she moves. One elbow, hard to the stomach, then she stamps on his foot for good measure, shocking him long enough to turn and slap him across the face before kicking the gun from his hand. Harry turns back to where she is staring him down with defiance, anger and confusion contorting his features. Then he pulls another pistol from his pocket – one Jack recognises, small and gold and so very far in the wrong hands – and shoots.

 

Jack watches, almost numb, as her body crumples around the point of impact, staggering backwards and turning panicked eyes on him. Her hand travels to her stomach, and she pulls it away shining and crimson. His eyes follow the movement, nauseous, and time speeds up again.

 

There’s another shot and Harry collapses to the ground, eyes wide and vacant, and she falls – Jack racing forward and letting his own gun clatter to the ground as he catches her.

 

“Jack?” she asks, and she sounds confused, like the reality of the situation has yet to hit her. He knows it has yet to hit him. He lowers her gently down, placing one hand on top of hers over the bleeding wound as if he might be able to stop it. As if he can cease the stubborn flow by sheer willpower alone. He knows that he cannot, though. He has seen far too many a gunshot wound in his time, he knows what is survivable and what isn’t.

 

This, he knows even if he refuses to believe, isn’t.

 

There’s too much blood, pooling around them and turning them into an island. Two dreamers in an ocean of reality. Some of it may be Harry’s but he doesn’t care, mind focused only on her and the life slowly draining away between his fingers. His mind can’t process it, can’t make sense of how this has happened – despite her fight and his discipline how is it that they still have wound up with her, precious as she is, slipping away from him drop by drop.

 

Phryne will never forgive him.

 

She looks up at him, her blue eyes – usually so bright and full of mischief – starting to dull. “I’m sorry, Jack, I only wanted to help.”

 

“Shush, now, there’s no need to apologise.” He rubs a thumb over her shoulder, doing his best to soothe her. She coughs, and blood splatters across her chin. This is real, he thinks, as impossible as it should be. This is really happening.

 

“Please don’t tell her it was her gun, it’ll only upset her.”

 

That he can only agree on. “Of course I won’t.”

 

The girl nods, breath becoming ragged. “Don’t tell her I was scared either, I want her to be proud.”

 

Jack’s heart shatters further than he ever thought it could. “I won’t, Jane.”

 

“I wanted to make her proud,” she repeats, a slight whine to the words that he’s heard too many a time before. It is the tone of the dying.

 

“She will be proud of you, Jane, she always is. We all are, always.”

 

Jane sniffs, and he fights a wetness threatening behind his eyes as he feels her breathing start to rattle and slow.

 

“You did well, Jane,” he tells her, and takes the smallest comfort from the tiny smile it brings. “Better than me.”

 

“You did alright,” she replies, eyes fluttering closed. “For a copper.”

 

He chokes out a watery chuckle, adjusting her slightly in his arms so she is cradled more securely. So she is safe, as safe and comfortable as he can make her for these last few moments.

 

“She’ll be proud,” he murmurs again, wanting her to hear, needing her to know. “I promise.”

 

“You promise,” she repeats, not a question but the definite tone she’d always use to commit words to memory, ready to throw back when needed. She will not need these again but, clearly, she needs them now – so he’ll be damned if he won’t give them to her.

 

“I promise.”

 

.

 

When Collins finds them he hasn’t moved in minutes that feel like hours; the only way he knows they aren’t is the feel of blood on him, cooling but still wet.

 

His senior constable stops short as he rounds the corner, the blood draining from his face as if a tap has been turned on inside him. Jack thinks somewhat numbly that wherever Hugh’s blood has gone he hopes it’s not the floor. There’s plenty there already.

 

“Sweet Mary, Mother of God,” he breathes, but doesn’t cross himself – a small part of his conversion which never really took. “Inspector, is she…” He can’t finish, and Jack can’t blame him.

 

“She’s gone, Collins.”

 

“Oh, Janey.” His hand comes up to cover his mouth, and Jack looks away, too preoccupied with his own grief to watch anyone else’s. He turns his gaze, instead, back down to the still figure in his arms, ghostly now where her skin has bled away its colouring.

 

“Let me tell them, Collins,” he says then, not looking up. He can think of nothing he wants to do less than return to Wardlow with this news heavy on his tongue – but it falls into the category of things on which he has no choice. He can no more let someone else deliver this news to her than he can change the truth of it.

 

“Not Dottie, sir, please,” Hugh replies, voice desperately quiet. “If you could tell everyone else, I’d be grateful, but I should tell Dottie.”

 

Jack nods. He understands completely. To have allowed this to happen is enough as is, to shy away from it is unforgivable – as little forgiveness as he thinks there is left for him.

 

He’s sure that Phryne will never forgive him. He knows that he will never forgive himself.

 


	13. Drowned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re wet.” “I noticed.” “Care to explain?” “I’d rather drink.” - Day 24, Drowned. Teen and Up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so whumptober decided to turn around and whump me by way of the dreaded influenza itself (I'm not calling karma, but maybe I shouldn't have written chapter 8??). I desperately wanted to post something else before the month itself is over, so hence this shorter, fluffier, plotless drabble. And after that, I guess it's now whumpvember? Is that how this works? Either way I've plenty I still want to post, so perhaps will now do so around the multichap I planned to spend November working on. What say ye? Do we have any room left in our hearts for the whump?

 

“You’re wet,” she says as she takes him in, dripping on her doorstep with a face like thunder.

 

“I noticed,” he shoots back, nothing else forthcoming.

 

“Care to explain?” she presses, reluctant to leave him out in the cold when there are so many wonderful ways she can think of to dry him off, but equally enjoying the sight of his damp and indignant appearance.

 

“I’d rather drink.” And he doesn’t wait any longer for permission, walking past her and towards the parlour with singular purpose. She watches him go with an amused smirk playing at her lips, pushing the door shut behind him

 

“If you drip all over my carpet, Jack Robinson, I shan’t be pleased.”

 

“I’ll buy you a new carpet,” he tells her, handing her a whisky with one already in his own hand. She bites down a strong wave of satisfaction at his comfort here, so hard-won and all the sweeter for it. She drinks, watching him over the rim of her glass but saying nothing. When she eventually opens her mouth again he anticipates it, holding up a finger to quiet her.

 

“I’ll tell you,” he states, “but you have to promise not to overreact.”

 

She scoffs. “Jack, when have you ever known me overreact to anything?”

 

He throws a look at her and she sighs, overdramatically for effect. “Fine, I promise. Now what happened?”

 

Jack drains the rest of the contents of his glass and sets it down. “I was mildly drowned this afternoon.”

 

Phryne blinks, not sure she heard him quite right. “I’m sorry… you were what?”

 

Jack closes his eyes, sighing. “I was drowned.”

 

The repetition does nothing to make the words register any better, and she stares at him in complete confusion.

 

“You’re going to have to elaborate.”

 

Jack lets out another breath and crosses to refill his glass, starting to explain. “Collins and I were chasing a suspect, Collins went down, I followed the man to the edge of the docks and he… took me by surprise.”

 

“And drowned you?” she asks, hearing the change of octave but finding she can’t do anything about it. She’s not altogether sure if it’s horror or amusement. Maybe it’s both.

 

“He hit me from behind and knocked me into the harbour.”

 

It’s definitely both. The image is both frightening and hilarious.

 

“But you know how to swim, Jack,” she points out, hiding her mouth behind her glass for fear her mouth might betray her and smile.

 

“Yes.” He nods, looking down into the glistening amber of his whisky. “But I was… unconscious, at the time.”

 

She chokes on a giggle, and bites her lip, meeting his accusatory gaze. “It’s not funny, Miss Fisher.”

 

“Whoever said it was?” she insists with false indignance, then bites on her lip to stop herself smiling. It would be different, of course, if he weren’t evidently well and alive and dripping onto one of her more expensive rugs, but her inspector just has a talent for head injuries that she’s never quite been able to reconcile to any kind of logic, and so long as he comes out truly unscathed she finds it an endless source of amusement. “However did you get yourself out of that one?” she asks then, hoping for his own sake that it’s a little more dignified. It’s not like she’d been there to tease him whilst she fished him out.

 

“Collins found me.” She throws a hand over her mouth to catch the laugh. Poor Jack, that’s so much worse than if she’d had to do it.

 

“Oh Jack,” she offers him a sympathetic smile, stepping towards him and taking his face between her hands, stroking away a lock of stubbornly curling damp hair with gentle fingers. “Why are you so good at getting yourself in trouble?”  


He blinks at her. “You’re asking _me_ that question, really?”

 

She shrugs. “Well, I’m good at getting myself out of it. _You_ on the other hand, have a distinct knack for the damsel in distress routine.”

 

Jack’s lips pull up at the corners and she feels satisfaction curl in her stomach that she’s finally pulled some humour out of him.

 

“Does that make you my knight in shining armour, Miss Fisher?” he asks, a glint in his eye.

 

“Not a very good one on this occasion, I’m afraid. Though I can’t exactly save your skin if you don’t warn me it might need saving.”

 

“Hypocrite,” he snorts, and he’s not wrong but it’s too much fun to play with him and so she argues anyway.

 

“Fool.”

 

“I’m wounded, Miss Fisher.”

 

“You’re wet, Inspector.”

 

“I’m aware,” he smirks and she rolls her eyes and leans in to kiss him, sighing into his mouth as he kisses her back, arm snaking around her waist with a practiced, familiar ease she never thought she could have enjoyed so much as she finds she always does. His lips are cold though, not the warm heat she’s come used to, and she pulls back again to eye him with concern.

 

“We really should get you out of those wet clothes, Jack, you’re going to catch cold.”

 

“Alas, it’s probably far too late for that already,” he says with the resigned shrug of a man who knows his fate. “I had a prisoner to process before I even made it here.”  


“Well I’d say it serves you right for going after a suspect without me,” she shoots back with an innocent flutter of her lashes, “but I’ll let the sneezing speak for itself when it comes.”

 

Jack makes a face and she laughs fondly, stroking her hands down his lapels and then promptly making a face of her own at the feel of soaking-wet wool.

 

“Either way, we really do need to get you out of this suit.”

 

He inclines his head in agreement, and she takes his hand in hers, pulling him towards the stairs and looking back a little forlornly at the dark wet patch he’s left on the carpet.

 

“I am going to make you pay for that,” she tells him with a wicked smirk, and he raises an eyebrow at her.

 

“Yes, about that, I’m afraid I don’t know how I’ll manage on a lowly policeman’s salary.”

 

She grins, leaning back in to kiss along his jaw until she reaches his ear. “Oh, I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement, Inspector.”

 

He pulls back, a knowing look in his eye that she hates and loves in equal measure. “I’m not giving you a head start on my suspects,” he tells her and she pouts at him.

 

“Fine,” she huffs. “We’ll have to think of something else then – and in the meantime, I’ve been thinking of all sorts of ways to help you get warm, would you care to hear them?”

 

“Why don’t you show me?” he asks, voice low, and she pulls him closer. She really is going to have to have a word with him about his proneness to injury sometime, the amusement at his bad luck a healthy counter to the fear she feels at the idea of him getting hurt but by no means a cure for it. Still, he is here and she is here and he is miraculously unscathed despite his near miss – and she really can think of so many wonderful ways to dry him off.

 

“Gladly,” she tells him, and can’t help the smile as he starts to lead her up the stairs. Comfort, so hard-won, so sweet to witness. She’s so distracted by the glint in his eyes it takes a moment before she looks down to see the trail of damp footprints he’s leaving as they go though, and she sighs.

 

It really is a shame about the carpet.

 

 


End file.
